


Precedian

by BlazeTheDemidragon



Series: Totally Fucked [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternia-Focused, Alternian Empire, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Precedian Alternia, Precedian time period, The Condesce is a jerk but we already know that, my friend told me to put "pineapple" in here, this was actually a group effort thing?, trollsona ancestors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-10-15 23:44:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 66,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10559712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlazeTheDemidragon/pseuds/BlazeTheDemidragon
Summary: Before Sgrub was played by the twelve fated to win, before the Summoner's rebellion, before the Signless Sufferer's sermons and even before the Condesce had claimed the throne, Alternia knew a period of time known as "Precedian". During that time, two Empresses ruled side by side for many sweeps, before the mutant was born. The mutant that was the harbinger to the destruction of their world as they knew it. The one they called the Harbinger of Death.It was said there was no record of times before the Condesce's rule, a lie told by simple ignorance and blatant arrogance. All but one massively important document had survived. A journal, written by a mutant named the Untahmed.(May or may not rewrite this. I'm kinda half asleep and half annoyed right now, and it's not a good combo for genius[4/6/17])





	1. Beginnings Of Small Things With Long Hair

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, so I'd like to inform you all that I've been looking forward to publishing this! I actually might have to come back and insert a scene that I drew in because currently, my computer is being an ass and won't let my tablet work properly (or it's the other way around).
> 
> Anyways, I'd like to say a big hearty thank-you to all of the wonderful people who's characters these belong to. The only ones that are mine are the Untahmed and the Wildcard (plus a few minor roles), so be sure to remember that! This story was written with the intention of showing off the headcanons we've all made up for this time period before the Condesce's rule, something I've begun calling "Precedian".
> 
> Be forewarned: this is heavy in the headcanon territory, so if you're not interested in such things, please leave now!
> 
> Also, do be kind with reviews. This is my first ever fic on here, and I'm mostly trying to figure out how to make everything work properly. I'm going to be trying to get this up on my DA (DeviantArt) so you can view it on a site where I kind of know what I'm doing more.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy! :)

There was the sound of the cracking whip in the air, the smell of fresh troll blood having been spilled on Alternian soil. There was the sound of someone yelling. It was a deep, harsh voice, but the young troll couldn’t discern what exactly was being said to her. She knew she’d done something wrong. Anytime any of the slaves on the plantation did something wrong, it was the same treatment: the quick bite of the whip and a verbal bashing that could go on for hours. The Overseer never seemed to tire of this game, nor did he seem to run out of breath. It was this repetitive nature that she’d become accustomed to, like all of the older slaves.

Only now did she seem to wake up to reality. The young troll felt her limbs fill with new energy, the dangerous kind. It flowed like fire in her veins, ready to be unleashed on whom she saw fit. It was easy for someone, especially a slave who had been deprived of the sopor slime their race so desperately needed to calm them, to become drunk on this kind of power, the kind of power that the beasts of the forests frequently felt, but the young troll did not dwell on it and instead, acted to expel the wicked power building up.

She rose to her feet, a bit unsteady. She was certain she should be feeling pain, and yet why did it seem like a dull memory? She supposed it was a side effect of the power coursing through her veins now. She couldn’t remember the stinging pain of the whip, only the raw anger that had inflicted her. She had no pretty words to describe such a feeling, such a rush of instincts and voices screaming at her to do terrible things to the Overseer, to serve him justice.

But the troll, despite this new power coursing through her, lacked the true energy to do such fanciful things just yet. For now, she settled for the most brutal way to end not only her misery but the misery of the thousands of trolls who were forced to do his bidding; the bidding of the seadweller who’s name was not known to the slaves. All they knew him as was ‘Master’, and that was all they wished to know, to begin with. While Master was the true culprit behind all of this pain and suffering, she knew she couldn’t take out her anger on him just yet. Patience would have to be used. She knew those who waited carefully would receive their reward in the end.

The Overseer was still screaming at her, a wild light now having entered his eyes upon her standing up to him. Such an act was a display of domination, not submission. Slaves were supposed to be meek, and obey their master's commands, whether it be for physical labor or anything else the master wanted. Everyone knew what would happen to those who disobeyed. This young troll moved like the bright bolts of energy that sometimes struck the ground when the gods were angry, and cursing them all with a storm.

She jumped upon the Overseers back, took his head firmly in her hands, and ripped it off with all the might she could muster. It came off easily, like when she and the other slaves snuck out during dawn to gather some of the wild berries found in the woods, so they wouldn’t starve. With his head, came great spurts of blue blood, staining her hands with the color, as well as her clothes and the ground itself. Nearby, other slaves stood in horror. They’d never seen anyone do such a terrible act before. None of them had suspected the young troll was even capable of doing such a thing, not just because of her youth, but because of how thin she was.

Undoubtedly, she would be culled. No questions asked. Even if she were powerful and useful to the Empire, no slave; let alone a lowblooded mutant such as her, would be allowed to live after an act like that. No, the best option for her would be to escape into the woods and allow the gods to take care of her. They would give her weapons and help her escape, each of them keeping the secret of her escape to themselves, for if they were ever revealed to have helped her, they too would be punished.

One of the rustbloods handed her a scythe she’d been using. She took a fellow bronzeblood’s scythe from him as well and told her to run far away from the plantation. Perhaps the master would believe her to be dead after a few sweeps. As it was, the young troll’s strange power had disappeared, leaving her with a few shreds of the odd energy that had coursed through her. She understood what they told her perfectly, and bid them a goodbye quickly before absconding to the nearby trees.

Of course, later on, the one they called ‘Master’; the Dominion, was angry at the escape of his only mutant. Mutant slaves were valuable. They were so rare and frequently proved to have weird gifts. This one had proved almost completely ordinary until he saw his overseer’s body. No one but a subjuggalo should’ve been able to do such a thing.  
The Dominion sent out a message to others that he was looking for his runaway mutant slave, but none were successful in tracking her.

_It was almost like she’d completely vanished…_

* * *

=> Be the runaway mutant slave

You are now the runaway mutant slave. You’ve been running for at least a few perigees now, surviving on the strange instincts that had gripped you before you’d killed the Overseer. It had been such a strange experience for you. You wondered if the feeling was ever going to come back.

Fortunately for you, your lusus had taught you very basic survival skills before she had been killed by Imperial Soldiers, hunting for mutants like yourself. She’d been a mutant herself, even without your strange blood color. You missed her terribly.

Unfortunately for you, the whip lash given to you by the Overseer had become infected due to it not being tended to right away. Only the gods knew how many innocent trolls that horrid troll had beaten with the whip and how many people had become infected with unspeakable diseases. You were holding up fair well, given the circumstances. You managed to hunt enough to keep you alive, trusting the small amount of the power that had coursed through you on that day to keep you going.

And of course, you sacrificed portions to the gods, just as the other slaves had taught you. One could never be too careful when on the run. Only now was the strange power fading from your limbs. You were weak, that much you knew. Your hair was tangled and dirty, as was the rest of you. Your clothes were ripped and in tatters, and only now did you feel the throbbing pain of the whip lash.

It was now nighttime, and you’d awoken, confused and scared for a few moments before you realized where you were. The night before, you’d managed to crawl under a clump of bushes and make a fresh nest for you to sleep the daytime away in. Your skin had darkened from the harsh rays leaking through, though it didn’t hurt. Perhaps you had a stronger resistance to the Alternian sun? You weren’t sure, and you weren’t about to test it.

There was the sound of someone humming something, which made you jerk up and hit your head on a, particularly thick bush branch. As you rubbed the spot that hurt, you looked through the leaves to see a middle-aged troll watering a few flowers. Flowers were rare on Alternia. Most only survived in the forests, where no troll dared to enter for fear they’d be swallowed by the beasts that liked to roam there. A troll tending to the delicate objects was an odd sight.

You crept to the edge of the bush and watched the figure. She was short and a little chubby, with spectacles that rested little ways down on her small nose. Her hair was curly and kept rather neat. Her dress was dark blue with blue flowers, her pants a slightly darker color. And her shoes were bright red. You finally managed to catch a glimpse of her eyes; a dark, dark color. Almost black. But there were very faint hints of the burgundy color you were accustomed to.

You felt yourself relaxing. All lowbloods had a code amongst themselves. A code of honor that was designed for survival. Though highbloods deemed them uncivilized, you’d learned of the immense loyalty they had between each other. And one thing that was part of this code, was you were to never tell someone higher than a trusted midblood that you’d done something illegal.

You slowly crept out of the bushes, your limbs not allowing you to move very quickly, thanks to exhaustion and pain. The rustling of leaves brought the attention of the rustblood to you, and she watched with a hint of fear in her eyes as you crept out. But then, like almost everyone you’d known back on the plantation, she relaxed very quickly. After all, you were underweight, dirty and young. No one worth their coins would ever find you a threat. Something inside of you was angry at this, almost as if they should be afraid of you, but you pushed it down. You needed help and this burgundy would hopefully take pity on you.

Sure enough, she put down the watering container beside one of the flower holders and approached you slowly.

“Well, what do we have here?” her voice was warm, even if it was nervous. It was a soothing, gentle sound. Like something you’d expect to hear from a grandmother; if you had a grandmother or even knew what one was.

“Where’s your lusus little one?” she asked, kneeling down next to you. She reached out to brush the hair away from your face, and you allowed her; too used to other burgundy’s taking care of you on the plantation to be wary of her.

You hadn’t spoken in quite some time, preferring to be silent on the plantation unless verbal response was absolutely required. But you remembered how and allowed your rusty noise-makers to emit your rough, growl-like voice.

“Dead.”

She was quiet at this, idly petting you with the hand that had brushed your hair back. You enjoyed the movement. It was soft and reassuring, things you hadn’t received much, even among the slaves.

“Well, why don’t we get you fed and cleaned then, hm?”

When you made no sound of protest, she gently took your hand in hers, and helped you stand; a motion you’d stop doing unless you needed to reach something high up. She led you to her small hive, a humble little thing, crafted out of wood and stones that had been fitted together. The interior was comfortable, though not nearly as lavish as the Master’s hive had been. The most striking thing of it all was a number of books that had been placed in random locations in the hive.

They overflowed the bookshelves.

Each one was a different size and shape, colors varying as well. Some of them looked new while others looked old. They intrigued you, to say the least. You hadn’t ever learned how to read or write, much like the other slaves, and didn’t see the purpose in learning. Clearly, though, this burgundy liked to read and must have read often, for there was not one speck of dust on any of the books. Or perhaps she obsessively cleaned them. You weren’t quite sure.

She led you to the ablutionblock. You only remembered what one looked like because your lusus frequently dragged you into one when you’d gotten out in the mud. Hers was again, neat and tidy, with a very simple ablutiontrap that you could sit down in or stand. She asked you if you needed help undressing, and at your nod, she very hesitantly helped you remove the filthy garments you’d been wearing for so long. You stood, naked for awhile, while she filled the trap with warm water. She dipped her hand into the liquid, feeling the temperature with her wrist, and asked you if it was alright. You did the same, and nodded, and allowed her to help you into the trap.

The water was almost burning, but the pain felt good and it helped wake your tired limbs up. It also reminded you of the large cut on your back, and you hissed where the water touched it. Frowning, the rustblood carefully moved your hair away from your back, gasping when she saw the mark.

“We’ll need to tend to this once you’re clean. Do you mind me cleaning you? I’ll just use my hands, and I’ll be very gentle.” the rustblood was biting her lip nervously.

You nodded and made a sound of confirmation. Hesitantly, she grabbed a bottle of hairsoap off, and squeezed out some of it, getting the strange stuff on both hands before rubbing it into your hair. She was very gentle, as she’d promised, and she worked the hairsoap into your scalp. You closed your eyes at the feeling. It was soothing. It wasn’t until she’d taken a very large cup, scooped water out of the trap and poured it over your head that you screeched out of fear and pain.

Almost immediately, she had soothing words of assurance and explanation. She apologized for having scared you but explained it had been the only way. She scooped up less water than she had the first time, and poured it over into your head, your ocular globes shut tight now that you knew what she was doing.

She took regular soap next and slathered a suitable amount onto her hands before she tentatively began to rub it into your skin. Her fingers ghosted over the wound, and she looked a little distraught at your sounds of pain. The filth on your body was turning the water nasty, but you felt so much cleaner with her washing you. She scooped handfuls of water out of the trap, cleaning off the soap.

The last thing she did was pull out a small container of horn polish.

“Would you mind if I cleaned your horns?” she asked.

You shook your head, having never cleaned your horns before in your life. She very gently began to spread the polish on your horns, rubbing it into the faint lines and breaks that were growing as you grew. She cleaned them thoroughly, and a light buzzing warmth began to spread throughout your body before she finally stopped, satisfied that you were clean, and uncapchalouged a fresh towel for you.

She helped you get out of the trap and wrapped you up--mind, gently--in the fresh towel, still conscious of your wound. She had you sit on the closed lid of the load gaper, and strategically adjusted the towel so you were covered, but had your back and the cut revealed to her. Though you couldn’t see behind yourself, you felt her rub something cold and soothing on the cut, and then placed a soft cloth over it, taping it to your skin. She patted your shoulder reassuringly and told you to stay there while she went to find you some clothes that would fit.

When she left, you examined your reflection in the mirror that hung above the handbasin. Your face was painfully thin, high cheekbones exposed to the world, probably making people confuse you with a highblood, for only they had those kinds of faces. Your teeth were unclean. You hadn’t brushed those since the day your lusus had died. Your hair was still a tangled mess, but it was clean and smelled nice, even if damp. Your eyes were still bright, though they had yet to show the true color of your red-orange blood. Your eyes were gray, just as every other young troll's eyes would be.

When the burgundy returned, you gave a little start, and she apologized for having scared you. She set out a pair of pants and an oversized t-shirt, though both were drastically too large for you.

She helped you put on the clothes, her assistance greatly appreciated. And then she led you to the nutritionblock, sitting you down at the table, and beginning to make you a very simple sandwich with sliced meat that didn’t look as fresh as the game you typically hunted. While you waited, she asked you questions about where you’d come from, how old you were and how you’d survived. You told her all that you could with your broken words--lowblood slaves weren’t the best teachers when it came to elaborate speech--but she seemed to understand what you meant most of the time.

You devoured the food once it was set in front of you, and she poured you a glass of water to wash it down with. Even though you weren’t as bad off as you’d been for food, you still gulped it down. Now that your hunger had been stated, your thirst quenched, your body bathed, wound tended to and overall fear extinguished, you allowed yourself to relax.

She drew a hairbrush from her sylladex and began brushing your hair without thinking, getting the tangles out. You allowed her and had a feeling you’d allow her to do almost anything at this point. It took quite some time for your wild mane to be tamed, and you dozed a little while you waited for her to finish. In fact, you most likely fell completely asleep before she was gently prodding you awake. You were almost immediately on guard, ready to spring into action. But upon remembering where you were and who was with you, you relaxed.

“Do you have anyplace to go?” the rustblood was asking you.

You shook your head. You knew you’d once had a hive long ago, but you’d lost that the day your lusus had been killed. You’d been too young to find your way back, even if you hadn’t been so far away. The only things you could recollect about that old place was that it had been under a volcano, and leaked into the volcano in certain areas. Your volcano had been in a chain of other volcanoes. And there had been forest surrounding the clearing; incredibly large ones that glowed at night. You’d loved to touch their soft bark, make them change colors at the contact of your skin. But that was long ago, and you weren’t likely to find that place again.

The burgundy was biting her lip as she studied you. When she finally stopped, you were worried she’d gnawed a hole right through her lip, but it appeared to be fine.

“Well I suppose I could be a surrogate lusus until you’re old enough to fend for yourself,” she was saying. “I mean, I have plenty of books on many different subjects that will help us. I’m a fairly decent cook. I don’t think taking care of young trolls is particularly difficult. Of course, you’d have to tell me if you’d want to do such a thing. I’d never force you to do anything you didn’t want to do.”

You felt the corners of your mouth lift in a smile. You hadn’t expressed happiness in a great long time. You decided to try something you’d seen the other lowbloods do when they were showing affection among themselves, and wrapped your arms around her.

(Art by me)

She visibly tensed for a few moments, terrified, but then returned the gesture hesitantly. You inhaled deeply, catching her scent of jasmine and books. You finally released her, feeling exhaustion sweep through you. She caught on that you were in desperate need of sleep, and guided you to her recuperacoon. You hadn’t seen one of these in a good long time, and while it should’ve made you thrilled, all it did was bring apprehension. You frequently got very sick after going into these contraptions, and you didn’t want to be sick with her.

But as she attempted to force you into it, you lost the capability to coherently communicate using words, so you simply screeched very loudly and attempted to get away. She understood that perfectly.

“Oh my goodness, what is it? Are you alright? Did I upset your wound? What?” she fretted over you similar to how you’d seen a mother clucklerbeast fret over her chicks.

You pointed to the recuperacoon and shook your head.

“Do you not like recuperacoons?” she asked.

You faked sneezing and discarding your digestive sac contents, before grabbing at your protein chute and then comically imitating dying. A look of understanding overtook her features.

“Oh my gods, are you allergic to sopor slime?”

You weren’t sure what that word meant, and clearly, your confusion showed, because she enlightened you.

“An allergy is when you have a negative reaction towards something in particular because your body thinks it's harmful to you. Do you get sick when you’re in sopor slime?”

You nodded frantically, relieved she’d gotten it. She was less frazzled now that she knew what was bothering you. Instead, she gathered a bunch of pillows and blankets and other soft things.

“Will this be comfortable?” she asked.

You wiggled out of her grasp and fell on top of the pile, arranging it until you had been buried under half of it; creating a little burrow. You stuck your head out and nodded to show you were content.

She smiled a little and stroked your head a bit. “It’ll be daybreak soon. I’m going to get ready for the ‘coon, and you just sleep here, okay?”

(Art by my moirail)

You nodded again, then yawned and curled your head in with your body, effortlessly disappearing.

You were compact into a ball under there, and though you didn’t know it yet, this would be your method of sleeping alone for your entire life. You heard her undress and slip into the recuperacoon, before that murmuring to herself, but you were quite asleep by the time she finally settled into the slime.

You somehow had already grown attached to this burgundy blood and showed no signs of relenting yet.


	2. Teacher, Teach Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, I finished another one. Still no drawing, because I'm in school right now, and the tablet still isn't working but I'm just happy this is done.

=> Be the cowardly rustblood

You are now she. There wasn’t much you weren’t afraid of, unfortunately. You were very cowardly, though you liked to think it was merely you knowing your place in troll society. As the lowest of them all, rustbloods were frequently treated horribly. The only reason you weren’t a slave or some other equally terrible position, was because you rarely interacted with others of your kind. The only time you ever saw other trolls, was when you went to the marketplace, and that was terrifying enough.

Of course, the situation you’d just gotten yourself into was possibly the terrifying thing yet. Housing a mutant runaway slave...what were you thinking? You had a weakness when it came to young ones in need. They were precious souls, some not yet tainted by the cruelty and obsession with rank as their elders were. And their minds! Just begging to be filled with an array of information. None of them lived near you, sadly, but this mutant seemed to have been no different when it came to your soft heart.

Especially when you began to teach her the next day. You wanted her to be able to speak properly, so you started lessons on speech immediately. You’d been brimming with excitement. You’d set up everything you’d needed. But she quickly showed more interest in the outdoors than sitting at the table in the nutritionblock. But that was fine, you were a patient soul, more than willing to teach outside.

Sure enough, once you were outdoors, she mimicked the sounds you were making with more interest than she had been displaying indoors. You weren’t positive she understood you, until a few weeks later, when she asked a question. You’d been cleaning your books; a lovely chore if there were any, when she said, “What are you doing?”

Her voice was still a little rough, but you were so overjoyed, you momentarily forgot your mild fear towards her; she having told you she’d killed this blueblooded fellow named ‘the Overseer’ by ripping his head off, that you lifted her into the air and squeezed her in a hug. She was startled obviously, but despite her weak clawing movements to get out, she was content to let you do as you pleased.

Next on your agenda of learning had been to teach her how to read and write. Yet with this particular task, she seemed to struggle drastically with it, to the point where she got frustrated and gave up. She’d throw her training-writing stick down and scale one of the trees that surrounded your hive. You weren’t quite sure if this was how normal youngsters displayed their anger, but you knew what it meant all the same. She’d stay up there for hours, only coming down when she felt like it. You were soon accustomed to falling asleep in your recuperacoon with her pile all a mess, lacking its occupant to make it look like someone actually nested there, and then you would wake up with her there.

You didn’t bother scolding her. There was no point in the matter. She did as she pleased when she wanted to and there was nothing you could do about it. Perhaps this was the ex-slave part of her, rebelling because she’d obeyed for so long. Either way, you couldn’t find it in you to get truly upset about such a thing. She always returned, and that was good enough for you.

Even with her failing her lessons, you still fed her and washed her. She’d regained enough strength awhile ago, but she seemed to like you washing her in the ablutiontrap, and you didn’t mind yourself. You liked having the ability to take care of someone. If it weren’t for your age differences, you might’ve considered this arrangement a one-sided moirallegiance. But as time progressed, it was definitely a feeling not found in quadrants.

Whenever she had free time, she’d roam the woods. She was never scared of it like you were, always laughed it off when you expressed your concerns. She’d tell you that the forest liked her. She obeyed its rules and sacrificed the proper things to the gods, so she would be safe. It was when she finally started bringing meat into the hive that you realized what she was doing. She was hunting. Slowly, after weeks and weeks, she began to become a more proficient hunter. And even when your processed sliced beast meat supply had finally been drained, you didn’t go hungry. Her hunts made it so you didn’t have to go to town much.

You managed to watch her one day. She could mimic the call of many different feather-beasts, making them come to her. She never brought them any harm, only offered them a bit of the bread she took with her whenever she roamed the woods. She approached antlerbeasts, making their noises too, and they allowed her to stay near them. She gathered some of the greens the antlerbeasts ate, chewing some of it herself before she’d move on. It was fascinating. And always, while she was there, she was doing something. Her hands never stopped moving. She’d be weaving grass into various arrangements, climbing trees and hunting for bugs that could be found on them.

You decided it was high time you change your teaching method. It was a very simple thing to do. You gave her a task associated with the word group you were teaching, and sure enough, she began to associate certain things with the task with the words she spoke, connecting the markings on the paper. It was magical.

For perigees, this became your life. Teaching her how to read and write, teaching her how to speak better. Just...teaching. Constantly. And she taught you too. She taught you that when she made certain noises, it meant she was feeling certain emotions. A growl lacking any bared teeth was a sign of irritation. A high pitched chirp was happiness. You were learning her body language.

She relished in laying at your feet in a tangled mess after dinner, you sitting in the rocking chair and her examining the rug you had up close. You’d read to her, only stopping when she asked a question concerning the book or whatever else might’ve popped into her head. It was very therapeutic, these calming evenings spent like this.

The young mutant hadn’t offered up a name in all the time she’d spent with you, and you weren’t about to give her one. That was for the lusus and the child to decide. Even though her lusus had been killed, you were still in firm belief that it was her decision to be named something. But she never offered anything. You merely referred to her as “my pupil”, if anything at all. You never called for her, for you had no need to. You rarely needed her for anything other than perhaps a lesson, and she knew well enough by now to arrive on time. That didn’t mean you didn’t ask her about it frequently.

“Have you thought of a name yet?” you asked her as she was practicing her letters.

She shrugged nonchalantly. “Don’t need one.”

“Everyone needs a name. It’s how you’re remembered by people. You cannot simply go throughout life lacking a name or a title of some sort.”

She paused in her writing. “What’s a title?”

“Something you typically gain at nine sweeps or more. A title is another name for yourself, a more common one for people once you enter the adult world. It characterizes you. Defines you. Explains who you are and what you do,” You told her. “For example, my title is the Alphabet. It implies I do something with words.”

That was the first time you’d ever given her a name as well. She seemed intrigued by it.

“Your title has to do with the thing I’m currently studying?”

“Yes. A title has restrictions, just as a name does as well. A title--any title at the age of nine sweeps really--must be eight letters long, no exceptions. ‘Alphabet’ is eight letters.” You drew an ink filled writing stick and wrote out your title in careful letters. “This is what it looks like.”

The mutant ran her fingers over the characters on the paper. “Do you have to be nine sweeps?”

“That is the limit, yes. You typically earn a title from your mentor, and action you do repetitively or a certain trait you have.”

“What about the other name you continue to pester me about?” she asked.

“That’s typically referred to as a ‘grub name’. You normally gain it at six sweeps officially, but you’re called something by your lusus.”

“Mine used to call me ‘little beastie’,” she told you, smiling sadly.

“How old were you when you lost your lusus?”

She considered this for awhile. “About two sweeps I think. I remember we’d just celebrated my wiggling day, and the Libra star sign was present.”

Getting excited, you hopped to your feet, going to one of the numerous bookshelves. It was raining, and you’d been forced to teach today’s lesson indoors. You scanned the books, using your fingers to keep your place. When you finally found the book, you grabbed it, bringing the semi-thin volume to the table and opening, flicking through the pages until you came to the page.

“Grubs born under the star sign; Libra, are commonly found to have tealblood. Studies show that tealblood eggs hatch more frequently during this time than any other, though it is unknown for its exact reasoning behind it,” you read out loud to the curious mutant. Another thought came to your mind, and you returned to the bookshelf until you found the other book, this one even thinner than the last.

“A popular theory for mutantbloods is that their bright hue corresponds with the color found on the opposite side of it. There is no real proof of this theory being accurate, further studies are encouraged.” you read out loud again.

As if following your train of thought, the mutant took a claw and drew it across her wrist, revealing the bright hue. She pressed her wrist to the paper, letting it stain, before drawing her wrist to her mouth and sucking on it for a moment, using her tongue to lap up the rest of the blood.

You took the sheet of paper that was in the second book; the hemocaste best represented by the blended stripe of color. This one had sections to help determine which caste a certain person belonged to. You examined the shades and compared each of them to the bright hue on the paper. Sure enough, a teal green shade looked perfect next to it.

“The theory is correct,” you announced, unnecessarily loud.

“What is this all about?” she asked, clearly still confused.

“It’s about the fact that you, my dear child, would’ve been a tealblood had it not been for that mutant gene of yours switching things up,” you pointed to the blood and then the chart again. “See? Tealbloods mostly hatch under the Libra star sign. You hatched under the Libra star sign. You’re a mutant. Therefore, you would’ve originally been a tealblood, had it not been for your mutation.”

The said mutant bit her lip. “Do tealbloods have strange justice-seeking rages?”

“No, not that I know of. They are fairly good at determining what makes something right or wrong, which is why they make excellent Legislators. I believe what you have, is another mutation that caused you to have certain abilities that differentiate from what would normally be expected from someone of your blood status. Though if you never displayed irregular activity before, I’m not sure why they let you live unless the Dominion was so intent on gaining a mutant slave that he decided to disregard the rules.”

Once more, you began to explain further, used to receiving confused looks from her by now.

“Mutants are considered a threat to the gene pool and are often culled immediately unless proven to have a gift useful to the Empire. You say you never showed anything irregular until the day you killed that Overseer fellow, leading me to believe that it was the Dominion’s own greed that allowed you to live, which would’ve normally have been a curse, but in this case, I suppose we’ll have to think of it as a blessing. The Dominion is the one who I believe was this ‘Master’ you had. He’s the only violetblooded seatroll who owns as many slaves as you’ve described. He’s also very old, though he may not look it if the rumors are true.”

She was still quiet. You pressed on with theories.

“I’ve never heard of a mutant possessing the abilities you have. It’s intriguing, to say the least. Highblood rages combined with the sense of justice almost all tealbloods possess, equalling a creature who feels intense urges to bring justice upon those whom you deem require it,” you gave her an embarrassed look. “I hope you don’t mind me rambling like this...but I do want to test your sense of justice and your morals to see just how accurate they are.”

She shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

And of course, you set out to do that immediately. The results were startling though.

“Perfect sense of morals and an unclouded judge...I’ve never heard of any tealblooded Legislator possessing a mind quite like yours.”

“Revenge is to be taken when absolutely needed. I may be young, but I understand the unnecessary bits of taking more than was earned.” A dark look overcame her features, making her eyes glint dangerously. “And I believe there are many highbloods who have gone far too long, being unpunished for their despicable crimes. When I am bigger, stronger, I will find them and give them exactly what they have earned.”

It was at that moment you realize truly, how much the young mutant had suffered. There was a strange kind of hunger in her eyes, a darkness that no four-sweep-old should’ve had lingering on her face. You were feeling quite nervous just being in her presence, though you knew you weren’t the one to be worrying about a justice-spree inflicted upon you.

You did pat her head a little, smoothing down the chaotic hair that seemed to like to stay messy and chaotic, no matter how much you brushed it. The darkness faded from her face, but the hunger never really left it. You supposed that now she was free, she would never hide her emotions again.

However, a few weeks later, she could be seen staring with blank eyes out of the window that showed off the forest. It was just before the evening meal, and she’d been spending a lot more time lingering in the hive, still making trips out to the forest to hunt, keeping up with the intense roaming she’d been doing. She seemed even more determined to learn how to read, throwing herself into her studies with more ferocity.

You sensed there was an underlying meaning to the entire thing. You’d come to learn that everything the young mutant did had a purpose, even if it wasn’t clear to you at the moment. And sure enough, during the evening meal, she sprung a question on you.

“What is the Alternian Law System like?” she asked.

“Depends on what you wish to learn specifically out of it,” you replied, dabbing at your mouth with a mouth-wiper.

“Everything,” she replied, her gray eyes serious.

You considered this, then cleared your throat, folding your hands in front of you. “The Alternian Law System is both simple and complex. It dictates that those with cooler blood colors and temperatures are higher, starting with the fushiabloods being the highest and burgundy being the lowest. Hopefully, you already know the place of the rest.”

She certainly did. It showed on her face with an annoyed look, but you pressed on.

“Lowbloods who show disrespect to highbloods are allowed to be culled by the highbloods, dictating their power is to be respected, or else. There are a series of other laws set in place by Empress Designer; a few of them being that no organization shall be made with the intent to usurp their power, and anyone caught in such an organization or found to be a supporter of such will be culled in the slowest and painful way possible.

“If one is accused of committing a crime, the best way to get out is to admit to everything. Denying what you did makes them deem you a coward, however, it seems to admit makes them believe you have more guts than they’d thought. I believe that even a burgundyblood could get out of a situation using this tactic.

“If someone were to start systematically killing highbloods, there would most likely be a massive hunt subjected to finding the culprit. No one is to disrespect the Church. Not ours, I’m referring to the church of the highbloods. Disrespecting their church would enact them to cull you for your blood, using it in their murals-”

“I would never disrespect the messiahs,” the mutant interrupted. “They saved my life.”

You decided not to comment on such a thing, finding it highly unlikely that the messiahs would bother with a creature as low as she. You were also aware that it was an incredibly cruel thing to think or even consider telling the youth, which was also why you kept your trap shut.

“Other than that, there really is nothing else drastically notable to Alternian law.”

She paused for a moment, taking a bite out of the cooked-antlerbeast she had on her plate. “You mentioned ranks once before. What are they?”

“They’re things the Empresses use to determine who we are and how important we are. I’m sorry to say that both of us are peasants. You would’ve been lowest on the upper-class area, but it would’ve been better than where you are now. The Dominion is a ‘king’, second highest.”

“He shan't be ‘king’ much longer,” she declared, eyes gleaming.

“You must grow a bit more until you become more of a threat to him,” you countered, used to her sudden remarks now.

She growled a little, but it was more of a growl of disappointment. You sighed, eating the last bite of food on your nutrition plateau before gathering it and the tools used to deliver bites to your mouth to put them in the handwash basin. She was quiet for the rest of the meal, finishing her food and then scampering to the foot of your chair to listen to you read once more.

Things were different in the air, now that she’d discovered what she would’ve been, had she not been a mutant. It wasn’t as if she’d decided she had to act stuck up like many of the highbloods were, but she wasn’t as carefree as she once had been. She was plotting something, planning for the future. And you weren’t quite sure what you’d started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friend (who's probably reading this too, hi V!) is planning on teaching me how to code pesterlogs and stuff at some point, so hopefully there will be stuff that will be fixed. Message me if you have any questions/concerns/whatever.
> 
> I think you may have noticed there's a headcannon going on about religon. The idea was that lowbloods had their own set of gods, practical ones controlling the weather, crops and animals. This set of gods was very much real, until the messiahs grew so powerful that they destroyed this older race, thus rendering the religion nothing more than a hopeful thought.
> 
> Technology in Precedian time period was basically human technology today (unless you're reading this ten, twenty years in the future. I'm talking about early 2017 technology people). It was Alternia's medieval period.
> 
> There was a somewhat defined slave trade going on, mostly with mutants being captured by highbloods. Having one meant you were very special. They usually culled the ones without anything extraordinary, but as you can tell by the writing, the Dominion was so greedy to have one that he disregarded this law and paid the price.
> 
> This is all I can think of rn, might edit this later. All I know is, there's a court trial getting ready to go down in my class. Fun.
> 
> Edit 4/7/17 at 3:46 PM: I FIGURED OUT HOW TO CODE PROPERLY, THANKS V!!


	3. The Giving Of A Title

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, I managed to finish another chapter in record time. I was actually quite proud of this one. We might have a few more drastic time skips as more chapters follow. I want to be able to tell the story without spending too much unnecessary time talking about things unrelated to the general plot.
> 
> By the way, my moirail drew some awesome fanart for chapter one, which might be adding in when I get it on my laptop. It's really adorable! :)

=> Be the brooding mutant

Yes, you were a mutant, and you were thinking, but you wouldn’t call it ‘brooding’. That was far too strong of a word to describe your actions. You were merely sitting in a tree, weighing your options. You’d been with the Alphabet for a sweep now. You’d celebrated your first wiggling day since being captured by the Dominion. You were now five sweeps now, and growing more and more every day. Both mentally and physically.

You’d found books on fighting, and taught yourself several stances, though none of them seemed very natural. You still needed to work out how to use those scythes the slaves had given you that day, though you weren’t quite sure what you were going to do with them. You couldn’t bear to get rid of them. Not only had they been a gift from the slaves there, they fit in your hands perfectly. The only problem was that their wooden handles were cracking with every swing you made. You supposed they weren’t supposed to be used as weapons, especially with your strength, and you complained to the Alphabet, who merely pursed her lips and said she’d think about getting new ones for you.

You weren’t too keen on going to the market in the town. While there, you had to huddle in your cloak, pretending to be a meek lowblood once more. It sickened you. The Alphabet liked to pet your cloaked head in sympathy, knowing you too well by now.

But for now, you were enjoying the forest; the feeling of the tree’s thick, rough skin under your legs, the scent of pure _life_  that could be found all around you. You weren’t in a hurry to hunt today. You’d been gathering things for winter for quite awhile. Your intent was to diminish the need to go to the market, making you and the Alphabet completely independent. So far, it was a mild success. There was less of a need to make trips.

You stayed in the forest until the moon was setting, the sun shedding its dangerous rays. You decided to stay up a little later, despite the sun hurting your eyes. You crept down from your perch, intending on retreating to the darker parts of the forest, shaded by the trees. You also intended to head back to the hive, getting a good day's sleep and rising again.

Of course, things rarely went the way you’d planned. You heard the brutal sound of a club hitting someone, the crack of bone and the scream of pain. You barely knew what you were doing when you sprinted towards the sounds, moving silently through the forest you roamed about in so much. You reached the scene easily enough. Some bronzeblood was in chains, being beaten by a subjuggalo. It was clear the bronzeblood was a new slave. He bore whiplashes and the same independent stance that many of the newer slaves carried. That would disapparate with time.

No matter how many times the subjuggalo hit him with his club, the bronzeblood refused to surrender. He refused to bow, and you admired his spirit. Of course, the subjugglator was beginning to become more and more aggravated. It wouldn’t take too much more for the bronzeblood to become irreparably damaged. Those on the lower part of the hemocaste system were typically stronger in the body than those higher, built to withstand the tremendous amount of the hard, physical labor. You had a theory that this typically stout form didn’t come from being predestined to be beasts of burden, but more on the principle that they were typically very good farmers. They enjoyed being outdoors, except for maybe the Alphabet. She preferred being indoors with her books. She was most likely too afraid to enjoy the outdoors.

There was probably a more exact science behind the stoutness of lowbloods, but you were no genius. The Alphabet probably knew a more exact science behind this, of course.

The shrieks of the bronzeblood jolted you back to the present. He was bleeding profusely now. If you didn’t intervene, the subjugglator was bound to become even more agitated and bash his brains in. No one likely cared if the bronzeblood died. You drew your half broken scythes from your abstratus, biting a lip as you examined them. They would shatter in this fight, you were certain.

But would it be worth it to destroy the only weapon you had? The only gift you’d received in your entire life thus far? To any normal individual, the answer would’ve been clear, but when you’re a mutant in a world that had you cruelly enslaved and forced to do many, many things against your will, some of them we shall not speak about. Eventually, the immense urge to deliver justice won out.

The odd rage you’d experienced on the day you’d killed the Overseer had returned, full throttle, and you contemplated what you should do to him. You decided that you would need to get ahold of the subjuggalo first before you could do anything. That seemed like the smartest idea. Before the subjuggalo could bash the bronzeblood one more time, you silently darted out from the trees, taking the blow yourself. It hit your arm, and you suspected you’d be in immense pain later, but for now, there was nothing to feel.

He stared for a moment, dumbfounded before his mouth curled into a wicked grin.

“Well, well. What do we up and motherfucking have here?” he said to no one in particular. “Little motherfucker with some busted up scythes? Gotta be the most interesting thing I’ve seen all motherfucking day. Gonna give me a motherfucking name?”

You did not speak, only choosing to glare at him for a minute, deciding to play the game a bit longer.

“Sure can’t be no lowblood, not with a skinny build like that, little motherfucker,” he mused. “I wonder why kind of pretty hue is under that there skin. Why don’t we find out?”

He gave a grin full of sharp, dangerous teeth that would’ve scared any other troll, but you were hardly fazed. You had a mouth full of sharp teeth too, even if they didn’t look like it. Your ears flattened as you bared your fangs, letting loose a growl promising death. The highblood just laughed.

“Kinda cute, you putting on a show like that, motherfucker. I think I might wanna keep you. No telling what kind of surprises you might show off.”

This was the perfect moment to strike. Though you were irritated that he’d dismissed you so easily, it also dawned on you that you had the element of surprise for his idiocy. And you intended to use it fully.

You leaped at the taller male, using his chest as a perch before you raked a scythe’s blade down his face, drawing rivers of purple blood before you sprang off of him; the bronzeblood in between the two of you.

The highblood didn’t look so lax now. He was positively steaming, most likely angered that you hadn’t submitted to his power. Maybe you would’ve submitted to him a sweep ago, but you refused to bow down to anyone. He gripped his clubs more firmly in his hands, his eyes beginning to turn orange in a rage.

“Kneel, motherfucker,” his voice was quiet, yet deadly.

You didn’t budge from your position, except to maybe raise your head a little higher.

“I’m only saying it one more time,” he growled, still soft. Then his voice shifted to maniac screaming. “I SAID KNEEL, MOTHERFUCKER!”

You summoned up some spit and shot it in the general direction of his face. It landed on his forehead. A lucky hit. His eyes turned completely blood red and he roared before charging. You knew he would run over the weakened bronzeblood. You charged as well, jumping at the last minute to use both of your legs to shove him back with a kick.

He flew a little, going backward as you’d intended. Unfortunately, whatever rage possessed you didn’t grant you gracefulness. You fell over, sprawling out from the kick. The highblood had been kicked into a tree and was dazed for only a few minutes. You got to your feet quicker than him though and took the opportunity to jump over the bronzeblood, swiping at the subjuggalo with your left scythe, managing to get him in the face again. He swatted the scythe away, attempting to get closer, but you refused to kneel an inch of land to him.

He was doing wild swipes, completely uncoordinated and you found it rather annoying he wasn’t a better opponent for you. The odd voices in your heads, things you didn’t listen to, started throwing out suggestions on how to end it. You ignored them until you heard one that made your ears prick with interest. Smiling a wicked grin at the idea, you channeled the rage into making your movements as powerful and as smooth as you could make them.

The subjuggalo was still trying to creep closer, only to become incredibly confused as you drew closer, the scythes moving in different directions as one went up and one went down at the place where his arms met his body. Off went the limbs, quite literally disarming him efficiently. You darted to the side, giving one last mighty sweep with the scythes. One managed to chop off his head, the other separating his legs from his body. By that point, he was clearly dead.

You were panting heavily, now finished with your task of justice. The rage began to die down, and you knew you had to get yourself to safety before it disappeared completely. Once that happened, you’d be at the mercy of the beasts that lived in the forest.

Of course, the minute you dared to move the scythes, they fell to pieces, just as you’d predicted. You did feel the loss, but you decided they’d served their purpose. They’d offered you the prospect of a new life, and now had just helped you save another. You reminded yourself to offer the blood from the subjuggalo to the messiah's later, deciding that it couldn’t hurt you to have offered them such a rich hue.

For now, though, you were attempting to drag the bronzebloods body back to the hive. He was still alive, but he had a few cuts from his skin breaking as the result of being beaten so brutally, and you wanted to get back before anything decided you looked like a tasty morsel. It was easier said than done. The bronzeblood was much bigger than you, despite having had a recent growth spurt. You managed fairly well, and were relieved when you found the Alphabet, tending to what she called her ‘flowers’.

Once she saw you, she smiled for the briefest of seconds before realizing you were dragging the battered, bloody body of a bronzeblood. She captchalogue the watering container, and hurried over to you, trying to help you carry him, though you were almost as big as she was now.

“Please tell me all of this isn’t your doing,” she pleaded, taking control of the bronzeblood’s feet.

You shook your head. “I was trying to help him. A subjugglator seemed to think it was funny to keep beating him and the idiot kept getting back up instead of staying down.

She sighed, helping you get him in the ablutiontrap.

“I’ll clean him and get him in the ‘coon just this once, but after, it’s your responsibility to tend to him until he’s better, understand? We are not keeping him. There’s barely enough room in the hive for the two of us.”

You nodded, content with ensuring he would be alright after all of this. She saw the tired look on your face, as well as the soft whimpers you’d begun to make as the pain from the highbloods earlier blow finally took effect on you. She told you to get a bag full of ice, wrap it in a small towel and put it on the quickly bruising area. Then she wanted you to eat a few pieces of meat, and go to sleep in your pile. You were happy to comply.

* * *

 

The next evening, you waited for him to wake up. You’d been sitting by the recuperacoon, reading a book for most of the morning. The Alphabet had awoken earlier than you, having slept on the long cushioned seat in the entertainmentblock so your charge could sleep in the ‘coon. The book you’d decided to read was something the Alphabet had assigned to you, in efforts of further educating you. It was an interesting one. She’d written it herself.

Of course, just as you’d immersed yourself in the book, your charge had woken up, poking his head out of the slime. He took a look around, clearly confused before his eyes settled on you.

“What the fuck?” was all he said.

You frowned a little. “What is a fuck?” you asked, remembering that lowbloods frequently cursed, but you’d never been given an exact answer to what much of their vulgar language meant.

“Something I ain’t explaining to a young troll like yourself,” the bronzeblood retorted. “Where the hell am I? Did I die?”

You snorted. “You’re too stubborn to die. Clearly, you don’t know how to play the rules of the game.”

“What game?”

“The game in which you do as they tell you before finding the opportunity to extract justice, you dipshit.” It had been awhile since you’d sworn yourself. The word felt a bit unfamiliar, and not quite right as if you weren’t supposed to use it at this time.

The bronzeblood stared at you for awhile, but he broke out in a grin. “Y’know, I wasn’t too sure on your blood when I woke up and saw how thin you were, but maybe it's just you not getting enough to eat. I’m Boriss Kerlen. You?”

“Don’t have a name,” you replied curtly. “Don’t need one until I’m an adult anyways.”

“So what the hell am I supposed to call you then?”

“Nothing at all. That’s what the Alphabet does.”

“Who’s that?”

“My mentor, and the main occupant of this hive. Don’t worry, she’s burgundy.”

Boriss’s expression relaxed at that. “Think you could help me get out of here, kiddo?”

You huffed a little, but grabbed your book and closed it, retreating into your pile for a moment to store it with the few other things you kept in there. Then you emerged. He held his arms up like a wriggling looking to get picked up and you hooked your arms underneath him, tugging him free of the slime. You scent nub wrinkled at the smell of it. It also stung, reminding you of your allergy towards it. With the slime this weak, it wasn’t likely to cause you much more than a rash and some intense cold-like symptoms, but you didn’t want to get any on you if you could manage it.

Fortunately, he seemed a bit stronger now that he’d been in the recuperacoon all night. You helped him walk to the ablutionblock, intending on giving him a bath. He was a bit puzzled when you did this, and even more so when you told him to undress.

“Whoa there, the ablution isn’t necessary,” he told you.

You suspected he had some sort of modesty issue, but you had no such qualms. You’d been a slave for two long sweeps, forced to do acts you were far too young to be partaking in anyways. You and the other slaves had always just focused on helping each other.

“If I don’t get you cleaned off, the Alphabet will scold me. I’d rather her think I’m doing my task well, than not doing it at all,” you explained, a bit of impatience creeping into your voice.

“Your task involves stripping me and bathing me like some sort of moirail?”

You weren’t sure of the meaning of that word, but you were certain that wasn’t what you were doing. “You need to be cleaned, you insufferable whelp. I’m merely doing my job. Now undress before I dump your ungrateful ass into the ablution; clothes and all.”

He weighed your words carefully before doing as you said. Though his face had flushed brown, you were more concerned with the bruises that had definitely developed overnight. You took the hairsoap, doing to him what the Alphabet had always done for you. He was still incredibly apprehensive about all of this, but you paid no mind to any of this, choosing to focus on the task at hand instead.

“So why don’t you have a name?” he asked.

You considered this fully and carefully before responding. “I do not have a name in honor of my deceased lusus,” you confessed. “It was she, she and me who should’ve thought of a suitable name together once I reached six sweeps. Now that she’s dead, I cannot bear to carry on with that tradition with my mentor.”

“You older than six sweeps now?”

“No. I’m five.”

“Well, you got time to think on it, should you ever change your mind.”

You took the oversized cup the Alphabet always used to wash the hairsoap out, filled it with water from the trap and dunked it over his head. He had less of a negative reaction than you’d had when you’d been bathed.

“I rarely change my mind,” you told him, taking the chunk of soap next. “The Alphabet says I’m very stubborn, very set in my ways.”

“I can see why ” Boriss smiled. “How’d you beat the highblood anyways?”

You told your story for the second time, and when you were finished, he seemed a bit amused.

“If you think I’m likely to believe a story like that, you must be even more of a cracked-think pan fool than he was.”

“It’s true,” you argued. “I do not lie.”

“Sure. You’re totally a mutant who has a weird mutation. Definitely.”

You growled and removed your hands from where they’d been rubbing soap into his back. You dunked them once in the water, took the claw on your pointer finger to your left hand and dragged it across your wrist, shedding blood. Bright red-orange blood. His amused demeanor disappeared upon seeing it.

“Impossible...how haven’t you been culled?”

“The Dominion wanted a mutant slave so badly, that he overlooked any possibility of me being non-useful to the Empire,” you replied curtly, bringing your wrist to your mouth, sucking on the wound and then licking it until it stopped bleeding. “His greed will be his downfall.”

“I’m guessing you intend to go up against him?”

“When I am older and stronger, yes,” you began to wash the soap off his skin. “Justice must be served somehow. I will do it myself. I’m not afraid of him.”

He shrugged. “I think you’re out of your think-pan,” he said after a while. “But I suppose if some idiot mutant is gonna get themselves killed over a bit of revenge, I ain’t the one to talk ‘em out of it. You saw how I acted around that subjugglator. Clearly, I ain’t the docile kind of troll you’re used to.”

You allowed a faint smile to grace your face. “No, and for that, you’ve earned a tiny sliver of respect from me for it, no matter how dense you are.”

“Gee, thanks,” he replied, somewhat teasingly. “Glad a youngster like you respects me. Really high on my list.”

“Hush now, or I’ll drown you in the ablutiontrap.”

For the rest of his time in the bath, you chattered about random things that had no particular value. You helped him dry off and dress in clean clothes, getting him into the nutritionblock and sitting him at the table while you attempted to prepare him the first meal of the day. You weren’t much of a cook.

You’d discovered from spending your time in the woods, that you could eat meat raw and not suffer any unfortunate symptoms. You had yet to ask the Alphabet if this was a normality among trolls, or if it was another mutation. Sometimes, you preferred the taste of raw flesh and the still-warm blood that ran to that of the cooked meat. Of course, you adored the Alphabet’s cooking thoroughly. It was just that when you tried to cook, everything came out wrong.

Boriss liked his food though. He was famished, and you waited for him to finish before you even ate anything at all. You were not fond of eating first meal. More often than not, you weren’t even hungry until midnight and saw no useful purpose behind eating in the earliest parts of the night. But you did decide to eat a couple of plain pieces of bread, just to assure him you weren’t starving. While you were eating, you talked. The Alphabet wandered into the nutritionblock after you’d finished your second piece of bread, her hair brushed and clothes clean, though she didn’t look like she’d slept well. 

“I see our guest woke up,” she commented loudly enough for the two of you to hear. “You gave him a bath?”

“Yes ma’am,” you replied. “Fed him too.”

“I can smell your attempts at cooking. Don’t worry, child, we’ll figure out how to teach you the basics of cooking some day.” The Alphabet sighed, getting herself some of the brown liquid that she liked to drink early in the night. She said it helped her wake up.

Boriss and the Alphabet talked for a little bit before she invited him to join in on your lesson. As it turned out, she was determined to teach you how to control your anger, something that continued to be a bit of an issue with you. You could manage the strange rages--the Alphabet began to just call them Rages--but normal rage was a tough spot for you. Especially since this normal anger triggered the Rages themselves, making you nearly inconsolable.

“I believe,” she told you after you’d completely demolished a miniature tree. “That there is this gene inside of you or _something_  that doesn’t belong in this body of yours. It’s a parasite. It feeds on you, even if you don’t know it. When you are calm and overcome with the need to bring justice, you can control the immense power you’ve been given, but when you slip into the anger, you lose the ability to remain in control. You _must_  learn how to control it, lest you be controlled yourself.”

You growled a little at that. You would never be controlled again if you could help it. You began to work more diligently at this power.

Boriss, though he wasn’t allowed to participate, gave you tips on how to control it. You felt grateful that at least the battered bronzeblood decided to try being helpful, even though he was injured rather badly. You became accustomed to him being around in the hive. He insisted that the Alphabet take over the recuperacoon, something she refused.

You’d become so accustomed to seeing him, that a few perigees later when he informed you that he was going to leave, you were a little more hurt than you expected yourself to be.

“I’m all healed up, kiddo. Your mentor told you that you had to take care of me until I was better. Now I’m all good. It’s time for me to rejoin the world outside of here.” he patted your shoulder. “I’m nine sweeps old, gotta act like an adult some time.”

“Then at least let me give you a title,” you insisted.

Boriss cracked a smile. “You ain’t my mentor, kiddo.”

“No, but I did take care of you. And I deem that close enough.” you retorted.

He sighed. “Alright, lay it on me, girl.”

“I name you the Reverenc,” you announced. “For hope that you will learn respectful ways.”

He scratched his head. “How do you spell that?”

You spelled it out loud for him. He laughed a little. “Cut off a letter, huh?”

“A title must have eight letters,” was all you said.

“Well, little demon, I’ve got a name for you.” he grinned.

You crossed your arms. “Is that so? What is it.”

“If you ever want to have a grub name, I think Ferhal Sckolr would suit you just fine.”

You huffed. “Doubtful in this universe.”

He gave one last parting smile, preparing to leave for the nearby village. “Yeah, but you know that it probably exists in another timeline.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcannons:
> 
> \- There's a size/body type difference between highbloods and lowbloods. That's not to say there aren't exceptions to the rules, it's just that lowbloods are primarily built stocky and strong, whereas highbloods are rather thin. Our favorite mutant is a mutant tealblood; so her thinness is explained by this.
> 
> \- The rages actually allow a certain amount of power to enter her body. These Rages are caused by spirits that still roam Alternia, seeking ways to extract revenge. Some of them live in the Untahmed's body and demand that she serve justice to whoever needs it. Almost all tealbloods have a condition similar to this, which is why most of them make really good Legislators (probably spelled that wrong, whoops). The Untahmed is no exception, it's just she's mutated in certain areas that allow her to control this (though she obviously can't do it now). The spirits who decided to infect her are actually stronger than a lot of them as well.
> 
> \- Nine sweeps is the age of adulthood. Six sweeps is that of an adolescent. That was probably the easiest headcannon to explain out of all of them.
> 
> Another little thing I'd like to add is that she did end up sacrificing some of that blood to the messiahs, which did make them happy. And we're not gonna have anyone realize this tidbit about the spirits. It's kinda like announcing you have worms. Not a good idea. I hope to get chapter four out soon. Attempting to be serious and yet somewhat amusing is kinda interesting for me, though I do it all the time with talking.
> 
> Boriss isn't really a drastically important character, but he may pop up again before you know it. Time for me to make some ramen noodles. Hope you all enjoyed! (I've been told by at least two friends that I'm cooking this chicken extremely well).


	4. For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I died for a little while. Reason? I was working on some art projects, and making some speedpaints. I've been jumping through hoops today, trying to get the fourth chapter up today. The internet at my grandparents has proved to be absolute shit btw, do not recommend. Hope y'all like it.

=> Be the big-hearted burgundy

You can’t understand how preparing a couple of gifts for your pupil is considered being “big-hearted”. After all, you did a similar thing the last time her wriggling day came. Of course, you weren’t quite sure of the exact date. The poor thing had been so young when all of the terrible things had begun. You did do it when the star sign; libra, showed in the night sky, and that was enough to leave her content. Last sweep, you’d told her the story of her star sign, and how all of the pictures that could be found in the sky had formed a few family names over the centuries.

There were twelve signs in total that could be found at various points during a single sweep. These twelve signs were rumored to be claimed by a bloodline that would be born with the next Empresses rule. You were certain you wouldn’t be alive by the time all of that happened. You weren’t too sure when it came to your student though. She was, after all, technically a tealblood. She would’ve been, had it not been for that mutation. She would most definitely outlive you.

You, of course, had your own sign. You’d selected from the ones that were available when you’d been six sweeps old, the one that had called out to you most. You’d been preparing for your student’s own ceremony. No matter her opposition to being named finally, she absolutely had to have a sign. There would be no compromise with this. You just hoped that she would be able to get a sign, what with her mutation.

Of course, she’d had a lusus, so you had hopes.

Technically, only one of these gifts was yours. The other was from Boriss, who’d given you his during one of your trips to the market. He’d been downright joyful to see you, even if he didn’t get to see your student.

You put the finishing touches on your gift and sighed. There was nothing more you could do, and if you kept trying to seek the impossible perfection, you’d end up ruining your gift. Your student wasn’t picky when it came to gifts. She considered any gift at all to be extravagant, which is why she didn’t like them, but perhaps she’d find these gifts useful.

Of course, there was the matter of her waking up to test the theory. She was still buried in her pile. It was a mystery to you how she fell asleep, let alone felt comfortable. She liked to refer to it as her nest, and she had a habit of hiding things in there that she either considered hers, or she’d found in the forest. Even when she wasn’t in it, you could see a little room in there, which was absurd. Surely she couldn’t have built anything in that tiny space.

There was a mild rustling noise as your apprentice began to awaken. You quickly captchalogued your gift and waited for her to rouse herself from her nest. Once her head had poked itself out of the blankets, you couldn’t help but smile. She cautiously sniffed around and finding no danger, extracted her long, gangly limbs from the pile.

“Why were you watching me sleep, Alphabet?” she asked, yawning to reveal the new pointed fangs on her bottom jaw. She was rather proud of these teeth, and the fact that the others were slowly growing little points as well. They weren’t nearly as prominent as the fangs she possessed already, but it was just another sign of growing up.

“I was waiting for you to wake, not watching you sleep. Do you know what today is?” you replied.

She yawned again, beginning to stretch out like a purrbeast does in the early parts of the night. She still walked on her hands and feet when she had the opportunity to, transitioning between a two-legged walk and a beast’s crawl like liquid. It didn’t slow her down at all.

“Not sure,” she said after finishing her stretching.

“It’s your wriggling day!” you exclaimed, smiling at her.

She looked at you strangely for a moment, but then shrugged. “I knew it was coming soon, I just didn’t know when you’d announce it.”

“Yes, well today’s the day! Some traces of your color just started showing in your eyes yesterday, so I thought it was time.”

She frowned, then stuck a hand into her pile, pulling out the shard of a broken mirror she’d found on a trip to the market. It was a rather large piece, and she’d dulled the edges to ensure she wouldn’t cut herself while she was trying to look. Upon noticing that yes, she did have a few streaks of red-orange in her overall gray eyes, she stared hard at it.

“I won’t be able to pass for much longer,” she murmured, still transfixed by the new change.

“We’ve called you a bronzeblood, remember? It’s much more convincing than calling you another burgundy.”

She huffed. “I don’t like hiding like this, Alphabet. It’s not in my nature to cower in fear.”>

“I know, I know,” you petted her head soothingly. “But it’s necessary for you if you want to reach adulthood.”

You managed to convince her to join you in the nutritionblock instead of arguing more about what she should be doing. You’d made her cluckbeast eggs, and an assortment of roasted tree nuts that she’d gathered, and some berries. She seemed surprised by the meal but no less enthusiastic. She had a ravenous appetite, half of which you expected due to her constant growing. Perhaps someone else would worry about their apprentices missing a meal, but yours typically found something to snack on, even in the forest. She was proving to be very resourceful.

Once she was finished with her meal, you asked her if she wanted one of her gifts now. She decided she did, and you brought out the gift Boriss had given her. She looked at them in awe. They were silver scythes; two of them of course. They had softened beast hide wrapped in the middle, creating comfortable handles for the wielder. The mutant examined the scythes carefully, admiring them.

“They were from Boriss,” you told her. “He says the stick part can increase and decrease in size. You just have to will it.”

Sure enough, it shrank a little upon her thinking, growing shorter. It stopped when it became twenty-four hands long, and it seemed that its maximum length was sixty hands. She was delighted to discover this.

“They’re also strong enough to match your strength, dear,” you added. “He did the calculations. They should last you forever.”

She rubbed her hands gently on the handle, savoring it before she gave you a big grin. “I’ll have to remember to thank him later.”

“You can thank him next time we go to the market,” you told her, smiling a bit. “Why don’t we practice with these?”

She nodded eagerly, and you watched her easily rip into the practice dummies that you’d constructed together. She was refining her form, something you were certain was completely unorthodox. She was good at what she did though. Upon day coming, she waited patiently for you to give her her last gift.

You set it in front of her on the table, waiting to gauge her reaction. It was a book, with a cover made of soft hide from antlerbeasts, the pages thick and cut a little lopsided. The interior was blank. No pen marks of any kinds had been made. There was a cord of the same material the cover was crafted out of, and you placed a feather, which you’d enchanted to never require any ink, never smudge, never to do any of the things a normal pen did. The quill could be attached in a special pocket in the spine.

Your pupil was free to decorate the cover as she pleased. She could carve or paint things on it, and it would stay. You hoped she put her symbol at least so that it would be identifiable, but you weren’t sure if she’d be up for that. She ran her fingers over the pages, inhaling the scent.

“I can teach you writing magic if you want,” you offered to her. “I only know a little, and it’s mostly for recording history or telling stories, but if you want to learn, I--”

Your sentence was interrupted by yet another ambush via hug. This time, you didn’t tense up at her tight hold, but merely smiled and began to pat her head, your claws gently tugging at the knots in her hair. You returned the hug with one arm, still smiling at her.

“I take it that this means yes?”

She nodded into your shoulder; as tall as you were now.

“Okay,” you were quiet a minute longer. “We have one more thing we need to do before you can retire.”

She released you from her hold, and almost seemed like she’d grown wary of your words. You decided she thought you were going to force her to create a name. You assured her you weren’t, you were referring to her symbol choosing. She relaxed at that.

You brought out the symbol chart and told her to use her quill to choose one. You watched in fascination as she chose to create one instead, a rare thing for a troll to do, but you’d heard it happen. You’d altered your symbol to suit yourself after all, and there were rumors the Empresses had created their symbols as well.

She drew a line, which curled into a circle and continued into an upright curl, adding a dot in the middle of the circle. You weren’t certain what this was, but it definitely seemed to suit her. It looked like this:

 

You looked at her. She seemed apprehensive, biting her lip as she gauged your reaction. You smiled at her.

“It looks perfect, my dear,” you assured her. “Very ‘you’.”

She froze for a minute, before tackling you in a hug again, making happy noises. You laughed a little. She could be a handful sometimes, but raising this child was very rewarding at times.

* * *

 

=> Be the angsty teen

 

What on Alternia does “be the angsty teen” mean? It sounds strange to you. You decide not to dwell on it. Right now, the Alphabet is forcing you to go into the city once more. You were running low on flour and other things, which irritated you to no end. You didn’t want to go to town. It meant you had to act like a cowering lowblood, but there was nothing you could do.

The Alphabet was tugging your cloak more securely around you, making sure the hood was shadowing your eyes sufficiently enough that the bright red-orange that was beginning to bleed into the gray iris, would be hidden. Once she was satisfied, she took your hand and began to walk to the city.

You remembered your first trip to the city, having felt a bit of curiosity but fear. You soon grew to loathe going there. Your mentor was careful to only take you to lowblood-filled areas, but there was always someone of higher blood roaming around, always something going on that could be dangerous to you. The fortunate thing was that most lowbloods didn’t bother with shoes, so you weren’t out of place. As long as no one took a close enough look to you, you could pass off as normal.

Of course, the city was filled to the brim with people; trolls going here and there to do their business. You watched in awe at some of them. They were very diverse. No highbloods lived in this city, but there were people like olivebloods, physics, and other things. You were led to your usual grain-buying place. The rustblood who worked there greeted you, smiling at your cold indifference. She and the Alphabet were friends and frequently talked about you. When you were here, you were allowed to wander around. If you were lucky, you’d run into Yaviin.

Yaviin was a yellowblood, a psionic who was at least a couple of sweeps older than you. He wasn’t a very powerful one, only capable of filling up a few batteries every now and then and tickling you with his powers, but he was very friendly, very thin and very tall. He found you fascinating, and was a friend of yours, much like Boriss. You wanted to introduce the two to each other and see what would happen. Yaviin was much more level-headed than Boriss.

Of course, you ran into Yaviin, much like how you’d met him before. He was a very bony pillow, but you wrapped him in a hug. Yaviin returned the gesture, smiling when he released you.

“Wow, you’ve grown, little cheekbeast,” he exclaimed, taking a step back to examine you. “I think pretty soon, you’ll be the taller one of the duo.”

“The Alphabet isn’t very tall herself,” you pointed out, but grinned.

“True, and I’m a gangly weirdo myself. We’d make quite the trio if I ever decided to go raving mad and live out there. Seriously, what the heck do you do out there? Eat trees to grow huge?”

“Maybe,” you gave him a grin that showed off your fangs.

“Ooooh, now what do we have here?” he smiled and used his fingers to pry your mouth open gently. “Let me see the teeth.”

You obliged and he examined them with great interest. “Now those are some lethal weapons. Still got them grinder teeth though, eh?”

You nodded. “Makes it easier to spend time in the woods when you can eat almost anything.”

“True to that. Want to go on a walk?”

You nodded.

“Well, let’s go ask the boss.”

The Alphabet and her rustblood friend had no objections to you walked, as long as you came back before moondown. You eagerly went along. Yaviin followed you, allowing you to take the lead. You’d told him you’d wanted to introduce him to a friend of yours. While you walked, you caught up. He revealed that he’d grown a little stronger with his psionics. He predicted that perhaps, he’d grow stronger as time went on, but he wasn’t sure. He admired your symbol, saying it suited you.

Yaviin kept his hair short, except for a single, small queue that was neatly braided at his neck. His hair was fluffy overall, dual horns marking him as an oddity. He said that dual horns were supposed to make a psionic stronger, something about the energy bouncing off them to generate the power faster, but he seemed to not have any effect at all, over his powers.

You heard the clanging noise of the blacksmith’s shop before you saw it. One of the things that had always puzzled you, was the existence of a forger’s shop in a city like this. It was bizarre, but the Alphabet told you this “city” wasn’t very big compared to the Royal Capital. Boriss had found a job here though. Surprisingly, he was skilled with crafting things out of metal; your scythes were proof of this skill.

And of course, he looked up in surprise and delight from what he was doing when he saw you. You were dwarfed in size compared to Yaviin, but you’d grown a bit since the last time you’d seen Boriss. Boriss, of course, still remained tall for a brownblood, but slightly shorter than Yaviin.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite wiggler. What you doin’ ‘round here, girl?” Boriss voice had grown smoother, his language skills having dropped from how much they’d improved from staying with you and the Alphabet.

“The Alphabet let me and Yaviin go on a walk. I wanted to visit you.”

Boriss put down his hammer and wiped his fingers on the stain-preventer. He scooped you up, still a little taller than you. “This Yaviin?” he nodded towards the taller, thinner fellow. Whereas Yaviin was tall and thin, Boriss was...short-ish, and muscular.

Yaviin tipped his head in acknowledgment, seemingly shy all of a sudden. It couldn’t have been due to Boriss’ blood status. That was the only time you’d ever seen him become meek and docile. Boriss studied him and smiled.

“You been taking care of her?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t dream of not taking care of her,” Yaviin sounded mildly offended.

“I don’t need ‘taking care of’,” you interjected. “I’m six sweeps old, and more than capable of taking care of myself.”

“Whatever you said, Ferhal,” Boriss smiled at you.

You growled softly, more at his tone than at the name he’d given you so long ago. Though it was not official, not on paper, you’d accepted the name ‘Ferhal Sckolr’ since that day Boriss had left. You had yet to decide whether or not you wanted the Alphabet to call you this, but you’d written an entry in your journal, talking about this.

“So where do you work?” Boriss’ question was directed to Yaviin.

“Off at the granary,” Yaviin replied. “I mostly help things keep moving, and ensure the power doesn’t go out. My psionics are too weak to be of any service in that factor though, so it’s a rather difficult job.”

“I’d imagine it would be. I’m a weapons-forger myself.”

“He made my scythes,” you drew the scythes you’d begun to take care of routinely, to ensure they wouldn’t break.

Yaviin examined them, letting out a sound of appreciation. “You’re a very good crafter,”

“Thanks,” Boriss put you down. “I could probably make just about anything if I really wanted to.”

“Oh? Like what?”

You began to wander away as the older trolls began conversing. You wanted them to get to know each other without having to prompt them. This also gave you the perfect opportunity to explore the city a little bit more. You’d stowed your weapons away, for the time being, assuming your non-dangerous, meek lowblood appearance again, though that quickly evaporated upon finding other young trolls. They were a little bigger than you, indicating they must have been a bit older, but they were playing with a small, sewn ball.

You sat off to the side; a small black blob with chaotic hair creeping out from underneath your cloak as you watched them. One of the boys seemed to get picked on more than the others. You assumed he must have been a lowblood like your friends; playing with a few of those who had higher blood. His horns reminded you of half of an “s”, strange but suiting him. His symbol was on his shirt, and you managed to put the brief images of it together after awhile.

Eventually, the ball was kicked into an alleyway close to you. You scrambled to your feet, wanting to help grab it, and found the boy with the sideways s horns was running after you, presumably to retrieve it as well. You reached for the ball at the same time as well.

“Oh, sorry about that,” the boy said, his voice smooth and deep.

“It’s okay. I was attempting to help,” you told him, returning your arms to the safety of the cloak.

The boy smiled. “Well, it’s the thought that counts, I guess. You’re the only person to ever try to help me, and for that, I think you. I’m Zanaro Hexxus, what’s your name?”

“Ferhal Sckolr,” the name slid out before you could stop yourself. “Though it’s not written down in record.”

“How come?”

“I didn’t choose a grub name out of respect for my deceased lusus.”

“I can respect that. What was she?”

“My mentor says she was a Watwl. They’re odd creatures.”

“Never heard of them. I hope she was better than the giant hissbeast I have,”

You smiled a little. “From what I remember of her, yes. She was very good.”

He returned the smile, though much larger with teeth that looked much sharper than yours. “Good. So what brings you to the city?”

You sighed heavily. “My mentor goes on trips here to gather things we can’t get out where we live. It’s annoying but necessary.”

“Ah. I think you’re pretty lucky to have a mentor who cares about you like that.“

“Why’s that?”

“Have you ever been captured by subjuggalos and then trained for servitude since then? It’s not pretty.”

You bit back a sharp retort that you’d been a slave for two sweeps and that had definitely been _much_  worse than whatever he was going through, but saying so would probably have you culled for running away.

“As lowbloods, we must expect highbloods to treat us as such or suffer the consequences.”

He gave you a puzzled look. “I’m not a lowblood. I’m a blueblood. Just under purple.”

You felt your blood run cold. It was now important more than ever to conceal just who you were. If you didn’t, there would be grievous results. “My apologies for assuming anything else, but normally, lowbloods are-”

“No, no, it’s alright. It’s fine. I don’t blame you. Something you guys aren’t frequently told is that bluebloods are used as servants to the subjugglators. We’re ranked under them. We do as they tell us. We’re some of their muscle, y’know?”

You nodded. You remembered the Overseer had been a bit of a servant to the Dominion. “Do you long for freedom?”

This time, Zanaro sighed. “Yeah, but if I broke out of the contract now, I’d lose my chance.”

“What chance?”

“To learn their clown scripture. To learn their customs and stuff. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. They don’t teach outsiders, so this is the only opportunity I’ll ever have.”

“What happens when you become tired of servitude?”

“Then I’ll leave. Simple.”

“If you were forced into this, what makes you think they’ll let you leave?” you demanded.

“You’ll see,” Zanaro winked at you.

You huffed but had the urge to smile a bit at the same time.

“Hey, nooklicker! Get the damn ball and quit talking to the peasantblood!” one of the young purplebloods called.

Zanaro winced a little at the words, but he gave you a smile before tossing the ball into the air once and catching it in his hand. “C’mon, you can watch the game and when it’s done, I’ll walk you and your mentor out of the city, okay?”

You shrugged. It was one of your most frequent of gestures. You followed him back out to the road and watched the sneers forming on his companion's faces. You did your best not to aim your glare at them, instead choosing to stare at the ground.

“She was helping me find the ball,” Zanaro explained.

“You’re so useless that you need a peasantblood to help you find one ball?” the biggest of them scoffed. “Really Zanaro, you need to learn to have a little bit of honor. You may not be as good as us but you’re certainly better than _that_ thing.”

“She’s just trying to assume her position as a lowblood,” Zanaro interjected. “Isn’t it _her_ job to do grunt work.”

The subjuggalos considered this for a moment.

“The mighty messiahs decreed that a lowblood’s purpose was to assist in serving the betters,” Zanaro reminded them, his voice low and persuasive. “Upsetting the balance would be blasphemous.”

They muttered amongst themselves for a little, before returning to their game. Their leader took a bit more time, glaring at Zanaro before turning back to his companions to start the game back up. You watched them for quite some time, marveling at the speed and strength they had. There was a certain beauty to subjuggalos. Their strength was to be expected. The higher one went on the spectrum, the more powerful they got. You supposed this made you an oddity; graced with highblood strength.

Yaviin and Boriss eventually joined you, Boriss being done with the night’s work. They made the occasional comment about the game, and you were pleased to find them sitting rather close together. The Alphabet appeared as the moon passed the halfway mark. She seemed frazzled, unable to call for you so she called for Yaviin. Yaviin waved her over, explaining what had transpired and she soon calmed herself.

She jumped again when one of the highbloods roared, though you were used to it now. They’d done this to signal a goal; one of the rubbish cylinders knocked over on each side of the street to serve as the goal itself. The purplebloods began to group together, but Zanaro slipped out of them unnoticed. They were walking home, but clearly, Zanaro was as good as his word came.

“Sorry for taking so long. They wanted to go a little longer than normal.” he panted.

You got to your feet, Boriss pulling you up the rest of the way.

“It’s alright. Though my mentor will have to stay further under the trees than normal.” you gestured to the Alphabet, who seemed even more nervous than usual that you were speaking to Zanaro.

“You should be fine, I think. I do believe I promised to walk a lovely lady to the edge of the city though.” he flashed out a grin of sharp teeth again. It was now that you noticed he had fangs, except his, were far thinner, and longer than yours. He caught you stare and opened his mouth wide, showing off his teeth. Each one was a meat-eaters tooth, just as it should be. As you were studying them, the fangs shortened, becoming half their regular size.

“My fangs are like my lusus’. Retractable. I can suck up venom with them and use it in combat, should I ever want to do so. Kinda like some of the seadweller’s fins. They keep growing with me. Pretty soon, I’ll have to keep them retracted all the time or I’ll bite someone by accident.” he explained.

“Interesting,” you commented.

Zanaro smiled, offering you an arm. You linked your arm with his, surprised by your lack of wariness. You hated bluebloods. You hated strangers. Yet this one was...different somehow. The Alphabet seemed shocked as well.

Yaviin reached out and hugged you a little with an arm. “Boriss and I are going to head back to our hives. See you next time?”

You nodded, returning his hug. “Of course.”

Boriss ruffled your hair through your cloak hood. “Be good for your mentor. I’ll see you next time, kiddo. Enjoy the scythes!”

You smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of not enjoying them!” you called after him as he walked away.

The Alphabet stood next to you, on the other side. She kept glancing nervously at Zanaro.

“Right, so let’s get home.” she said, starting to walk.

Most of the trip was in silence, except when Zanaro deemed it necessary to make a joke concerning something on the way. Which meant there were jokes every few minutes. He was oddly charming, his hair longer than most boys’ hair by now. His eyes held a bit of his blood color in it, more than yours but clearly not full grown. He was lanky, just like you, with long, graceful fingers. He wore a pale dark blue t-shirt, his symbol marked clearly on the right shoulder, which looked like this; 

You found out he was seven sweeps old. His weapon of choice was two short axes that he was so finely tuned to, that he could easily call them back to his hand after throwing on. He wished he could be a subjugglator; a true one with purpleblood. As it was, he was pretty abnormal, admitting that he had chucklevoodoos that normally purplebloods used. His weren’t very strong, only enabling him to paralyze people into fear, making their realities spin as he trapped them in nightmares.

In short, he overshared himself. You’d reached the end of the city, the forest just ahead of you.

“Hey,” Zanaros tone suddenly became more serious. He released your arm so he could stand in front of you. “Thanks for not treating me like I’m this god-like figure or treating me like garbage. Really, I appreciate it.”

You shrugged. “If I am to be completely honest, I believe respect is to be earned through acts, not through blood or heritage.”

Zanaro grinned. “You and I are on the same page then. Oh, and uh,” He stuck his hand in a pants pocket, pulling out the ball from earlier. “I want you to have this.”

You tilted your head in puzzlement. “Why?”

“Because you don’t look like someone who gets to have a lot of fun. I figure if you can learn some tricks with this ball, you’ll smile a bit more. Which, by the way, smiling totally suits you. You should trot out that expression more frequently.”

This brings out a laugh from you, the requested expression coming out shortly after. You reached out and grabbed his wrist in a non-threatening manner. “I thank you,”

He grinned. “No problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI. I just remembered that I didn't explain the troll measurement system. They use hands. Now, I forgot what exactly constitutes as one hand, all I know is that there's an algebraic formula for it. The first measurement in hands that's ever mentioned is 24 hands, and I know that equals about three feet roughly. So if someone who can math could be a dear and solve this problem, it'd be greatly appreciated. The second measurement is 60 hands is around five feet or so. Maybe longer.
> 
> Imma eat my dinner now, bye.


	5. The Day Of Boredom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Literally just a filler so I can get to a chapter with more signifigant things. Also sheds some more light on her journal. That book is going to be important later on.

=> Be Ferhal Sckolr

Hush. You have no time for these shenanigans. You have to finish this entry before you can oblige to the whimsical wishes of the voice upstairs.

=> Read diary entry outloud

You growled in irritation. This was no diary, nor was it meant to be read out loud. At least, not yet. It isn’t ready yet. It won’t be for a great deal of time. You were certain that the day it was finished would be a day of sadness. For now, you journal was for you most personal thoughts, lessons, plans and scriptures you remembered the lowbloods reciting at religious ceremonies.

Very few lowbloods knew how to write, the ability considered a nonessential for them. As a result, their holy words and ceremonies were known only by words spoken out loud; songs that were sung asking for rain. You’d memorized a few, trusting the Alphabet, Boriss and Yaviin to fill in the gaps you left open. It was a process you were looking forward to. You enjoyed hearing tales of the old. They soothed the voices.

=> Finish the entry

You huffed in--you guessed it--irritation. Genius cannot be rushed. But you do make the final scratch marks on the paper, content with what you’ve written thus far. You stowed your quill away, burying the journal in your nest. You kept most your possessions that weren’t on you in there. You were planning on capchalouging the journal eventually, as an extra precaution. One never knew when someone might try to burn down your hive. At least with the journal being safely in your sylladex, no one could take it from you, not even by force.

=> Flap your arms like a cluckbeast

You glared into the empty space of nothingness. Someday, you were going to find this peculiar voice and cull it. Very slowly. And painfully. With a lot of anger. You had glorious plans for this. Of course, this was an unlikely thing to happen. Even more unlikely than the other glorious plans you had for the future.

=> Have first meal

This was something you were happy to oblige. Food was frequently a thought on your mind. Having spent two sweeps as a half-starved slave, you were very possessive of your foodstuffs. You liked to keep eating throughout the day. You ate when you were hungry, the forest being the perfect place to be if you were in need of a snack. You were wise to its ways and knew just where to look for good food, and what not to eat.

First meal was something you liked to skip. You weren’t hungry that early in the night, something your mentor understood rather well, but she’d been enforcing it more lately, to compensate for the amount of training you’d been partaking in. You wished to be strong enough to take on anything. In order to do that, you had to train. All of your plans involve you being as skilled as you possibly could be. Fortunately, the Alphabet had a vast library in a manner of different things, and you could study different kinds of fighting techniques that would ensure you’d be as slippery as the fishsnakes that liked to roam the deepest parts of lakes and rivers.

You’d found the books on combat were much easier to focus on than the books of your early pupation. Of course, you still had a mild bit of trouble learning new things, but you’d been excused from most lessons that had been deemed necessary during your early days with the Alphabet. Instead, she’d begun teaching you her ways of recording information.

There were so many different things you could do with writing. You could use magic to make the writing hidden to the view of most people. You could make the writing appear at certain moments, things you were fairly certain to happen in the future. You weren’t very good at predicting future events, but you had hunches that were often accurate to the real deal.

You could make the writing appear when certain blood from a certain troll sacrificed it. You were working on making a mini-you to guard the book, handling its affairs and taking the reader to the entries or passages they needed to see. The mini-you was purely for guiding purposes. There was no other purpose to have it, and it would not be capable of performing any other tasks other than what you enchanted the mirage to do.

The Alphabet had also taught you how to store memories in the book.

It was a very delicate process, one that if not done properly, it would result in the immediate destruction of your mind, but it was well worth it. So far, you’d told your story up to the last notable events that had happened to you; that being the interaction with Zanaro Hexxus a few nights ago. You were starting to get the hang of it.

Of course, your digestive sac started growling, reminding you of your immense hunger. And there was a pleasant smell wafting from the nutrutionblock. The Alphabet must have cooked something good for you. You wiggling your way out of your soft nest, pausing for a moment to sit on your haunches like you’d seen beasts do in the past, shook yourself and crept downstairs, choosing to use all of your limbs. You wanted to test your mentor’s senses.

This, of course, proved to be a rather frightening experience for her, as you commented on the way she’d cooked the cluckbeast eggs and seasoned meat logs. She laid a prong over her pump biscuit, breathing heavily.

“Don’t ever do that again,” she warned you.

You looked up and laughed a little. “Your senses are dulled. Had I been a predator, you would be lunch.”

“Lunch is not for several hours,”

“It’s an expression.”

“I’m far too used to you taking things in a literal sense to tell if you actually comprehend what an expression is or if you’re just pretending to know again.”

You had these arguments more often, now that you were older. You found them both amusing and intellectually stimulating. Even though the Alphabet was quite the coward; stating so herself several times so you didn’t feel particularly bad about referring to her as such, she was rather good at challenging you with banter.

You’d begun to refer to certain things like she did. Prongs were hands. And a pump biscuit was a blood pusher. It was odd, but she seemed a little pleased your vocabulary was expanding.

Once you’d finished shoveling food into your mouth, you left the hive, the typical behavior. You went to the forest to train alone, seeking the mightiest of beasts to test your strength, reflexes, intelligence, nerve and courage. So far, you hadn’t been beaten. You didn’t waste the meat. You brought it home, gave it to your friends or sold it and earned a few coins.

You had yet to find a beast you could not best. You had one last thing as a trial for yourself, to test your strength. It was intended to be done when you finally reached nine sweeps old. There was a very large boulder at the near center of the forest. It was black, with hints of purple glowing stones. Upon asking Boriss about it, you’d discovered that it was unbreakable by organic means unless a dragon decided it looked good enough to melt.

You wanted to have the strength required to split it in two. You doubted you’d ever need that kind of power, but just knowing you had that on hand would be incredibly satisfying for you. As is was, you could punch most things and split them in half, but it would take at least two more sweeps of training in order to even attempt such a thing.

=> Tell of your great plans

Though you normally wouldn’t be one to express your plans for the future, the unseen voices of decision making made you consider. There wasn’t any harm in revealing a portion of what you would do, now, was there?

You decided no, there was no harm. The voices never betrayed. Their purpose was mere to move things along, nothing more.

Your plans for the future were complex, as well as very bloody; full of immense satisfaction. In the most basic of simple terms, what you would do is travel around. You would go around Alternia, never venture into space, and simply seek revenge for those who needed it. Of course, you had your own hit list. There were a few people on that list, one having already been taken care of, but there was one more that you desired to see fall from his pedestal. You had composed a few lists in your journal, though those were probably the most heavily enchanted entries of them all.

You were planning on living a great deal of time doing this work. You would protect people if it was the last thing you’d ever do, which in retrospect, it probably was. The Alphabet expressed her immense concerns for you dying before you could live that long. As a mutant, you could be culled for merely existing. You were planning on many things, but avoiding this system by any means possible was on the top of your list.

=> Be the Alphabet

The Alphabet is far too busy to comply with your wishes. She has to finish these designs and quickly.

=> Debate about what you should do next

There wasn’t much _to_ do, which was the problem. It was almost as if the gods decided a filler scene was needed before much more significant things happened. You weren’t particularly happy to oblige to such things, but you had no choice in the matter. You could at least train and hope the future held much more significant happenings other than an entire monolog concerning nothing important except information to be converted.

You decided to take a brief nap in a tree. It was much better than going in this current loop of nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize profusely for making a filler chapter, it's just everything I want to happen next needs to be in chapter six, so a filler chapter was all that I could come up with that wouldn't take months of planning. Hopefully, chapter six will come out quickly. I need to work on some drawings to go with other chapters as well, so you'll have to wait for this to become more illustrated. Drawing takes a little longer than writing sometimes. First comes the finding of the scene, then comes the sketch, the lineart, and so on. Even though these drawings are relatively simple compared to what I usually do, it still takes some time to get them looking perfect.


	6. Blood Spilled on Stones of Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember that graphic depictions of violence thing? Yeah...that really blasts off into effect in this chapter.

=> Be Ferhal Sckolr

Really? No creativity today? Wow. Okay. You guess the directors are getting lazy.

=> Be the insufferable asshole

Now _that’s_ more like it! Excellent work, carry on.

Moving on now, today is a rather special day for yourself. It’s a great step for trolls your age, the ending of your innocence, had you possessed such a thing, to begin with. It is a monumental step forward with your growth; or rather the end of it and shall change your life for--

...oh who are you kidding, it’s not that big of a deal…

Unless you count reaching the end of your childhood, finally coming to nine sweeps old a big deal.

To answer the hidden question, no. You don’t. But your mentor has other plans for this day, that sadly do not involve you hiding away in a tree somewhere. She’s inviting the only two people you know other than her, to have a bit of a get-together and celebrate the day. Something about a wiggling day-party, or whatever other nonsense she’s on about.

You’d rather be alone with peace and quiet.

But, you can’t deny that you don’t want to see Yaviin and Boriss again. Last you’d heard of them, they’d been getting along excellently, and you suspected one of them was going to ask the other to be matesprits. If not, you were going to lock them in a room together until one of them proclaimed undying flushed feels for the other.

Of course, you were likely to get scolded, but it would be worth it in the end.

Your mind briefly strayed back to Zanaro Hexxus, like it frequently did. Though you hadn’t seen him since that day, he remained in the back of your mind, constantly reminding you that there had been a blueblood accepting of lowbloods. It wasn’t likely that he’d remained the same though. If he was to survive being the guard of a highblood, it wasn’t likely for his good nature to last very long.

=> Exit the respiteblock

You shudder at the suggestion, as doing so will mean you will have to face the partygoers. Oh well, might as well get this day over with quickly. You weren’t particularly fond of people making a big deal about aging up, but you supposed it was a miracle that you, a mutant, had managed to live this long without being culled. You didn’t consider it much of a miracle, considering who you were.

You were far too crafty for anyone to catch you.

Sweeps of reading dozens of books, scrolls--anything you could get your hands on--had turned you into an intelligent troll. You were fairly confident that you wouldn’t get caught. You’d learned how to conceal your emotions. You could act so convincingly, that it even had those closest to you fooled. You couldn’t be mapped. And for that, you were grateful. Having an air of unpredictability would be a highly useful for your plans in the future to work.

=> Stop stalling

You decided to finally go into the entertainmentblock. Of course, your entry signals your friends to immediately jump out of their seats and give you a very large and tight hug. Boriss being the stronger of the two, he also gave you a noogie. Yaviin gave you an extra squeeze before releasing you.

“Quit being mush, both of you,” you demanded, your voice finally having matured past the gruffness of your youth. Instead of having a slight growl and rasp to it, it had smoothed itself into a blade; elegant yet sharp. You loved it.

“Well, it’s not every day that the little troll you knew in your youth turns nine!” Boriss said.

“I think we’re disturbing her Boriss, knock it off,” Yaviin gently pushed him off of you, and you flashed him a  grateful smile.

Boriss shrugged, and opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by the Alphabet walking into the room with a chocolate sugar sponge. Your sniff nub delivered its scent to you, making your mouth water a little. You loved chocolate. It was an expensive treat, but very much worth it.

“I know you don’t like making a big deal out of things, but I think a chocolate sugar sponge is a perfect way to celebrate today.” she told you, setting it on the table you kept in here.

“Plus some practical, but thoughtful gifts,” Yaviin added. “We can’t let you be nine without having some adult things.”

“If you give me a filial pail, I will kill you,” you warned.

This, of course, caused the Alphabet to blush and fan herself, muttering, “Why did I raise such an obscene child?”

Boriss and Yaviin just grinned.

“No pails for you, kiddo. Too young. But we have some other stuff that might call your interest.” Boriss replied.

“Of course,” You grinned as the Alphabet drew a cooking knife and began cutting the sugar sponge into equal sized portions for you all to eat.

For awhile, you were silent, merely enjoying the presence of people you actually liked, and the deliciousness of the Alphabet’s baking skills. You’d never quite mastered her way with cooking. You couldn’t follow directions. You had a tendency to just toss things in whatever you were cooking, making it very interesting to taste--tasting excellent to you--but no one else appreciated your chaotic culinary skills.

Once you were done with eating, your friends drew out their wrapped gifts. Yaviin gave you his first, looking nervous.

  
“It took me a long time to obtain the materials needed, and to actually figure out how to make it, but I hope you like it.”

You tore into the cheap paper, to reveal soft, black fabric. Unfolding it, showed that it was a long, black cloak. It was surprisingly heavy but felt like it would provide warmth. The clasp was simple: just a knot and loop. And best of all, it had a hood that would be perfect for concealing your eyes.

“You made this yourself?” You asked him.

Yaviin nodded. “I very diligently worked on it. It’s hard making a cloak big enough for someone who’s sixty-four hands tall. You are officially the tallest one here.”

It was true. You’d sprung up like a weed, growing until you had to hunch over a bit in the house. You suspected the only reason your horns hadn’t kept growing was because there was no room. As it was, they were getting pretty big themselves. You weren’t going to be able to live here much longer.

You tried on the cloak, to Yaviin’s delight. It fit perfectly. You took it off again and folded it neatly, before picking up Boriss’ gift. His was a book on enchantments for keeping yourself hidden, and for further fortifying your journal. He received a hug in return; you placed his gift on top of Yaviins.

The Alphabet was the last to give her gift. It was squishy, like Yaviins. You made a small rip in the paper, finding there to be soft, cured hide of an antlerbeast peeking out, though it’d been dyed a faint orange color. Further tearing the paper, revealed its contents. It was a rather simple outfit, but marked it as unique: a sleeveless top meant only to cover your chest, stopping after that to have your midriff-free of any fabric. A very simple bottom that looked similar to the undergarments you were used to. And two pieces of cloth, that you had no idea what they were used for.

“You complained heavily about your shirt and pants slowing you down, making it hard for you to move,” the Alphabet explained. “So I did some minor calculations, a lot of reading and asking around, and found that an outfit like this would be most suitable for what you needed.”

You ran your fingers over the soft fabric, admiring it lovingly. “It’s wonderful. Could you help me change?”

The Alphabet smiled a little. “I think you’re getting too old for me to help you with these things,”

But she still walked with you to the ablutionblock and did help you get dressed. You realized with a start that she’d aged through the sweeps of tending to you. Her hair had much more gray than it once had, and there were lines on her face that hadn’t been there before. Her eyes were still the same though. Timid, but loving. Once she was done, she brushed unseen dirt off of your shoulders and smiled at the two of you in the mirror.

“You’ve grown up nicely,” she said softly. “I suppose I can no longer refer to you as ‘my pupil’.”

“I will always be your pupil,” you told her, smiling a little.

The Alphabet uncapchalogged a hairbrush and attempted to tame your wild locks. She succeeded a little, and brought out another strip of the cured antlerbeast hide, tying your hair back with it. She looked up at you and smiled. “Now you are ready.”

It had not escaped your keen eyes, that your sign was sewn in teal on the front flap of the skirt that you wore. It was the same hue on the cloak as well, though that sign was carefully hidden. Both pieces were very simple, lacking any lavish designs, just the way you liked it. Boriss and Yaviin nodded approvingly at your outfit, both far too polite and pitying each other to stare at your new appearance.

Boriss had taken your scythes before you’d entered the ablutionblock, and now returned them to you; having increased their previous maximum length from sixty hands to seventy-two hands. And now the blade was retractable; capable of being disguised as a walking stick. You were very grateful for your tinkering friend.

“There’s only one more thing that needs to be done,” the Alphabet declared. “And that is, give you the title you earned when you were only four sweeps old.”

You sat down on the floor, eager to hear what your mentor would name you.

“I name you the Untahmed,” she declared, her arms spread out. “For your wild nature, your inability to be captured and your plan to never be controlled again.”

The new title gave you the warm and fuzzies, so you decided to release them by grinning broadly.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Well, I may love my title, being the Reverenc, but I have to say, yours is a lot better,” Boriss said teasingly.

“You don’t even go by your title,” you pointed out, making a face at him.

Boriss smiled. “That’s because I have no need to. I don’t plan on doing great things. I don’t need some grand title to foretell my destiny. You, on the other hand,...you’re gonna go places, girl.”

* * *

 

“Are you certain you want to leave now?” the Alphabet fretted as she helped you bag that had belonged to a matesprit she’d had in the past.

“If I want to get my plans done, then there mustn’t be any more delays,” you told her, folding one of the blankets she was letting you take. “I’ll make trips back here when I want to see you, don’t worry.”

The Alphabet reached up to cup your cheek like she had when you were younger, so you subtly crouched a little lower so she could without having to stretch up too awkwardly. Her thumb moved back and forth before she released you.

“I just think it’s absurd you’re going to journey all over the planet in order to fulfill these revenge urges.”

“There are certain things I’ve learned to control, but these are something that must be fulfilled. Innocent trolls deserve to have their justice, and if no one else is going to be brave enough to do such a thing, then I will.”

The Alphabet bit her lip. “Still…”

“I’m the only one who can do this.” You gave her a reassuring smile. “I tested my strength yesterday. The boulder split, just as it was intended to. It’s my destiny to do this.”

“How do you know this?”

“The gods told me. The messiah's too. When both of them are in favor, something must be true.”

She sighed, packing one last thing. Your bag contained things you’d decided you wanted outside of your sylladex, like food and blankets. Some books too. But never your journal. That was kept safely tucked away.

“Promise me you will be safe.”

You gave off a slightly amused half smile. “I cannot promise that. I’ve never been safe. You know that.”

“At least promise me that I’ll see some sign that you still live.”

“If you don’t hear any buzz about a mutant being culled, then consider that a good sign.”

“That’s not exactly fair,”

You frowned and tilted your head, raising an eyebrow. “I am always fair.”

“You know what I mean.”

Sighing, you knelt down and placed a hand on the Alphabet’s shoulder. “Why are you so worried about me leaving? You never were when I was younger.”

The Alphabet took a deep breath and sat down, seeming even smaller than she already was. “My matesprit promised me she’d come back one time...and she never did.”

“Who was your matesprit?” you asked gently.

“Her title...was the Factious. She was a limeblood, one of the few that still lived. The Knhitter has since ceased culling them frequently...their numbers have been going up, but the Factious was among the last to die.”

“Why did the Knhitter have them culled?”

“She saw their existence as a threat to the authority of the Empire. She deemed it necessary to cull them all, because of their incredible powers that no other blood caste has.”

This part interested you. As a mutant with interesting powers yourself, others possessing such a thing was intriguing. “What kind of powers?”

“They had the ability to passive anyone. _Anything_  for that matter. They were wonderful leaders. They could get their ideas across easily. My beloved was incredibly good at swaying people to her cause. I just wish she had listened to me before going...perhaps she would have lived.”

“So the Knhitter didn’t want the limebloods to take over?”

“They very well could. A limebloods power is unexplainable. It’s just...they get you calm so quickly. It’s hard to understand if you’ve never spoken to one. They can be very persuasive.”

“I wouldn’t want to be controlled like that,”

The Alphabet’s eyes widened. “Oh gog, no. They don’t control you. They persuade. They are incapable of controlling you in the way that you’re familiar. Perhaps one day, you’ll have the fortune of meeting one.”

“So why did the culling stop?”

“The Designer. She called it ‘needless bloodshed’. Said it wasn’t any way to rule an Empire. Claimed they needed _everyone_  to play a part in the fabric of the Empire. Taking one strand out would be disastrous. The Knhitter listened to her hatchmate. I’m only saddened it came a little too late.”

You nodded a little, thinking hard. “I make no promises when I say I’ll return. I only wish for you to be aware that I may drop in, in the future.”

“I know...I’d rather keep you close to me though.”

You placed a gentle kiss on the Alphabet’s forehead, similar to how she’d always done to you. “Don’t worry, Alphabet. I’ll always remember what you taught me.”

* * *

 

And of course, it was that memory you were thinking of as you wandered the new forest you’d come across. The trees here glowed, as did the moss and other plants. It reminded you of your old hive, and you briefly wondered if this was near the place where it had once been. The flowers in this area were also intriguing. They were very frequent; some of their stalks glowing in the dark.

You were so preoccupied with the memories of the past and the thought of the forest, that you didn’t notice there was another person in the forest until their voice rang out among the trees.

“Hi! How are you?” a feminine voice called.

Such an interruption made you jump, immediately tensing as you searched for its origins.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you,” your eyes focused on a hooded figure, similar to yourself but not. For one, she was a few inches shorter than you and wore a cape instead of a cloak, and it was very dark brown. The hood was pulled over her eyes in a similar fashion to yourself. Her clothes were plain, lacking any symbol of any kind. They could’ve been mistaken for peasant clothes, but one glance at them told you they were a little softer than the rough materials lowbloods were given. Perhaps midblood?

Her hair was kept in a braid, half of it a fuchsia hue from what you could see. It was interesting, to say the least. But you weren’t one for prying when it was unnecessary.

“You didn’t exactly scare me. I don’t fear anything. You just gave me a start. I’m not used to having my mind be in places my body cannot follow,” you told her.

She chuckled a little. “Would you like some Cheecherries?”

You considered the options. A stranger just offered you food in the middle of the woods, wearing a dark brown cloak. You have no idea what blood color she has, nor do you know if she’s from the Dominion. And yet, she seems significantly less threatening than you. Her teeth may be been a bit sharper, but there was something about that soft, soothing voice that made you decide she was no danger to you.

“I suppose…” you replied, still wary of her.

She handed you a few of them and sat down, crossing her legs. You followed her example.

“So what are you doing here?” she asked.

You cautiously bit into one of the Cheecherries, finding that it tasted no differently than normal, chewed for a while then swallowed. “Camping for the most part. I have a long journey ahead of me, and I decided I didn’t want to travel all night and day without replenishing my food and water supplies.”

She seemed a bit surprised, even though you still couldn’t see her eyes. “Well, I know there’s a lake somewhere around here.”

You’d taken another bite, still chewing as you thought of this. Once you’d swallowed, you gave a small smile. “Good hunting around the lake, I would guess. Where there’s water, there’s plants and animals. Some fish too, but I’m not as fond of fish in lakes. There’s always the chance of a seadweller trying to drown me, and I’d rather not scare one off today.”

The stranger drew a hide flask from her hip, and you briefly sniffed the air only to find it was water. She took a sip of it, seeming somewhat nervous. “True, but I’m sure someone who hunts by themselves would be able to keep clam--” it was at this point that she coughed a little. “Calm around one?”

You shrugged. “I have a bad experience with them from the past. Very...traumatic stuff happened to me,” Your mind flashed an image of a smiling Zanaro. “But then again, I’ve been proved wrong about blood castes and people before. And once, I met a blueblood who treated me with some decency, so I suppose anything is possible. If a blueblood can act like a friend, then a seadweller can as well. Of course, there’s one, in particular, I would _never_ * expect to act well. He...well, the more left unsaid about him, the better.”

You took another bite of the Cheecherry, and the stranger spoke up. “Oh...I am so sorry. I have a hatchmate who isn’t too sympathetic either, but my matesprit…” the stranger seemed to be blushing, though you weren’t particularly interested in seeing it’s hue. “She’s very different.”

“Never heard of anyone having a hatchmate before. Of course, my mentor gave me access to her extensive library, so I’ve read about them a lot. I’m glad to hear your matesprit is different though. Could it be something to do with her that made you go into the forest today?”

The stranger sat up a little. “Yes, actually. I’m picking these flowers to surprise her with. It’s been five sweeps since we met, and I want to do something nice for her.”

You smiled warmly at her. “Cute,” You considered the trees around you briefly, deciding that you wanted to help a little. “Hmm, these look like trees that used to be around my old grub hive...if these trees are similar, then I have the perfect flower idea for you.”

You unclasped your cloak, taking it off and standing up; proud and tall. “One must never climb trees with a cloak on, it leads to unpleasant deaths.” You approached a nearby tree and began climbing it, pleased with how easy it had gotten over the sweeps. Your training had paid off in more ways than one.

The other troll seemed intrigued. “Did you used to live here?”

“Not sure,” you replied, still climbing. “If there’s a ring of deadly volcanoes that explode every other sweep, then yes. It’s been a very, very long time since I’ve been to my own hive. My mentor raised me after she found me in the forest. I was far too young to remember my way back home, and I’ve yet to remember the details that used to be so clear.”

“Mentor? What happened to your lusus?”

You’d gotten very high up in the tree by this point. You’d also found that telling these stories was quite easy: you were sworn, to tell the truth at all times. Your line of work depended on it. But there was no sin to be found in leaving out certain pieces of the story. It made your death less imminent.

“My lusus was torn to shreds, trying to protect me. We’d gone out on a lesson; her trying to teach me how to survive in the wild when it happened.” You didn’t bother including that the Empresses drones; their soldiers, had been the ones to do it. You didn’t explain that you’d been forced into slavery shortly after.

The stranger put her hands to her wide mouth. “Oh my gog, I’m so sorry! I hope I didn’t upset you.”

“No it’s quite alright. I’ve come to terms with what’s happened. Besides, the things that did that to her will be properly punished when the time comes,” you picked the flower you’d been looking for; a dazzling beauty that glowed blue and purple in a mesmerizing fashion. Glancing down, you calculated whether any injuries could be sustained at this height, and upon finding that there were none, you jumped down. “This is for you and your matesprit,” you offered the stranger the flower.

She seemed shocked as she took it. “Thank you very much! She’ll love it.”

You smacked your hands together a little, wiping off dirt; smiling a little as you did, and put your cloak back on. “They’re usually called Kernias. Rare little things. They only bloom in these forests, something about the trees and the way they glow and the soil quality. You could probably get a pot and plant them t get more, but you’d need one of these trees to make them truly thrive. I used to spend all of my time hunting for them when I was very little. They give off a very nice scent.”

“I’ll be sure to mention it when giving this to her.”

You nodded once. “Good,” you briefly looked to the sky, checking the position of the moon to see where it was before noting it was at the halfway mark. “Good gogs, I better get tracking immediately. Half the night gone already! It was very pleasant chatting with you, miss…?”

“Nahlah,” the stranger replied hastily. “Nahlah Ghomes.” She extended a hand for you to shake.

You took it and shook a couple of times before releasing it. “Ferhal Sckolr. Anyways, it was pleasant chatting with you, Miss Nahlah, but I’m afraid I must be on my way. I predict we’ll meet again, though it might not be under such pleasant circumstances. Until then.” Using the incredible amount of speed you’d been given, you vanished into the forest, though not too far away.

“Have a nice night, Ferhal!” was the final thing you heard from Miss Nahlah Ghomes, a curious-looking troll if you’d ever met one.

Though you hadn’t been lying about needing to camp and replenish your stores, you’d also stopped for a different reason. You were seeking the whereabouts in which one of those guards had been spotted. One of the ones who’d killed your lusus long ago. You’d been following his scent for several nights now. You were very close. You could tell.

You continued following the scent, it leading you to a guard's outpost. There were at least three of them there: a shorter one, and two tall ones. You assumed the shorter one was younger, judging by his voice. There were two familiar scents present, the younger one bearing no memories in your mind.

Stealthily, you crept around, your cloak keeping you concealed. Its black fabric hid you in the shadows. It was when one of them had their back turned and had moved a good distance away fro the others, that you crept forth and took your shot. You rushed forward, drawing your scythe and making a cut on his back, vanishing as he turned to face you. You cut him again on his cheek, vanishing again. You kept at this game, striking when he turned to where you’d been last. You gave him no opportunity to fight back. Eventually, you grew tired of these “love bites”, and sliced an arm off, a leg, a sponge clot.

This, of course, would be viewed in an odd manner by the authorities later on. Why would anyone bother to remove limbs like this? Why would anyone want to kill someone of such a high status? Was this the result of a lowblood revolution? Or an old feud with a far too black ex-kismesis?

Perhaps it would make more sense to the others that had been there. Perhaps they would remember the terrible sin they’d committed. But you suspected it wouldn’t register in their puny think-pans until you’d finished them all off. One by one. Until there was nothing left but blood and mangled corpses, ripped to pieces the exact way your lusus had died.

It was a happy thought to consider.

You used the blade of one of your scythes to make a deep ‘x’ mark, then stopped darting around just for a moment to allow him to see his killer. His eyes widened with shock at the flash of your eyes, and you gave him a horrible grin before you returned one of your scythes to your strife deck and punched him where you’d marked him. The deep marks became deeper as your fist moved through him.

You uncurled your fingers, searching briefly for what you wanted before you felt the pulsing beat of his blood pusher. At that point, he had blood trickling out of the corners of his mouth. With a small grunt of effort, you tore it out, watching it beat for a few more minutes before your claws bit into it, effectively stopping it. Without any of the cerulean blood coursing through his veins, he felt to his singular knee, your own momentum having stopped a while ago.

You watched in fascination as the light faded from his eyes.

It was a grim thing to think, but there was a certain satisfaction to seeing a job done, to having the strange power and the voices that came with it lulled for a moment before they noticed one more person you had to kill. You repeated the process, only with this one, you chose to hack off different parts.

And this one had his breath sacs removed instead of his blood pusher.

You’d all but forgotten about the younger troll, until you heard a startled gasp and the sound of a gun being drawn. Not wanting to be left uncertain, you nimbly knocked the gun out of his arms--damned thing was almost as big as him--and you backed him into a wall. He looked terrified. Seemed to be roughly seven sweeps old or so, just starting training.

You put one of your scythes under his chin, tilting it up towards the moonlight to get a better look. When you found he was not one of them, you internally breathed a sigh of relief. You didn’t want to kill a young one, let alone someone who hadn’t done wrong to anyone, especially you.

You removed your scythe from under his chin and gave him one final look before vanishing.

It went like that for quite some time. You’d begun to develop a bit of a reputation. Along the way, you’d begun paying people back for what they’d done for others. They even had a crude nickname and folklore for you. “The Untahmed Harbinger of Death”. Of course, they misspelled ‘Untahmed’, but it was still amusing.

You grew used to this life on the road. You grew used to its unpredictability and enjoyed it all the same. You slowly grew out of targets to seek, and soon there was only one more you had to attend to before you could consider yourself purged of any personal revenge urges.

**_The Dominion_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy bananas, we had a total of two new characters that are actually important introduced. I'm on a role. The scene between Nahlah and Ferhal was actually just recently thought up by my lovely moirail, and we worked out all the details together using the power of ROLEPLAY. It was glorious, 10/10, would do again.
> 
> She also drew an image for this! (since im an idiot and idk how to add images to notes, you're getting it at the end of the damn scene with those two).
> 
> I think this was before she understood that the Untahmed set out on a journey when she was an adult, which is why she looks small and her horns aren't drawn in adult form, but the artwork is wonderful, and thoughtful so we shall let it pass.
> 
> Just to let you all know, you're free to draw your own artwork and have it featured in the story if you'd like! Just figure out how to send it to me. I'd be happy to put it in.
> 
> Anyways, I'm off to work on chapter seven.
> 
> My moirail's character is Nahlah Ghomes, so I can't claim ownership for that.


	7. A Debt Repaid

=> Be the justiceseeker

It was an unusually pleasant day in the village, and you were content to help the lowbloods who lived there with their harvest. They’d allowed you to stay there if you offered you immense strength in the field to bring in the crops, and you were more than happy to oblige. Though you knew your place had ascended far higher than theirs, you still enjoyed bringing in food with the company of lowblood chatter and song to urge you on. It was the united front they displayed; an odd one among trolls that showed the odd form of what could be called “kinship” had you possessed defined bloodlines and a sense of kin as it was.

One of the female trolls started up another old lowblood song, typically sung by slaves. Their ancestors likely came from plantations that used to be more abundant on Alternia; most of them having been crushed out by the switch of the ruling class; the beginnings of the Knhitter and the Designers’ accession to Empresses. Only three of these once numerous plantations still stood, and one you were planning on destroying to the point of no return. It was a happy thought to consider.

You decided to join in with their tones to the beat of the music; made by stomping feet, hands smacking against the ripe orange skin of the large fruit-globes that grew upon the ground. Your own voice carried high above all of them; a powerful sound. It sounded like the roar of the wind, holding music rather well, despite your unfamiliarity with the words, you were a fast learner when it came to the calls of creatures. This was no different.

A few of the other trolls began to look at you strangely as you worked alongside them. You’d since left your cloak in your temporal camp; it was no use to a field hand. Your clothes marked you as an individual compared to the t-shirts and worn pants of the villagers, but they allowed much more mobility. You hefted another heavy load of the large fruit-globes. Even the strongest lowblood couldn’t pick this many up, and it clearly showed.

They’d been spooked by your large horns; still growing now that there was enough room. They’d been spooked by your large stature. You towered over Yaviin, so you could understand why. But the chief of the elders stubbornly clung on to the belief that you’d be useful here, and so you stayed.

You placed your heavy load on the hoofbeast-pulled wagon, walking back to the rest of them. Some of these would be sold in the city market as a way to earn revenue for the villagers so they could buy things they couldn’t make. You wrote down much of what they taught you; passages now full of instructions for making a manner of different things, like butter, cheese, meat logs. Your journal was quickly becoming a book of religious and practical use. You wrote down your own sermons, messages from the messiahs and gods.

Sometimes, you recited them to the younger trolls of the village. It was doubtful they’d ever move away and create hives in other places once reaching adulthood. The community would simply build them a new hive when their lusus left. It would expand. You weren’t sure if that was pathetic or intelligent. It was a very thin line.

=> Be the narrator

One cannot be the narrator, but if you just wanted to have a third person view, you could’ve said so.

Unbeknownst to the mutant, she had obtained a watcher from the woods; a taller troll with wild, unkempt hair that had been forcibly convinced to be put into a messy bun, as a sign of servitude. His long fangs gleamed in the dark, and he watched her with the happy thought that he was, once again, misbehaving. He hadn’t been ordered to watch her, but he’d wanted to. His highblood bosses had been camping near the lowblood village for quite some time, planning on culling the whole lot of them, but he’d been intrigued by this strange girl.

She was clearly no lowblood; if her statue and horns were anything to go off of, but she couldn’t have been a purpleblood. It was baffling. She didn’t often look up from the ground, wore different clothing from the other lowbloods. A simple top that wrapped around her rumble spheres, and her shoulder blades. There appeared to be something underneath the two pieces of material that served as a skirt, and she walked around barefoot, though showed no signs of discomfort.

Normally, such a creature would’ve made him ask his superiors if they would permit him to keep her as sort of a pet. But something told him this one would never be tamed. Nothing he could say or do would ever convince her. So he held back on retreating.

Whatever the case, he had plans to further investigate this one. She was different. And he liked different.

* * *

 

=> Be the alarmed tealblood mutant

You were most certainly a tealblood mutant, but you weren’t so much alarmed. More surprised. The sudden honking and crazy laughter had been covered by frightened screams, shouts of pain and overall confusion in the air. There was fire everywhere, and you’d managed to run out of your camp, with your cloak hastily put on, ready to wreak destruction on whoever had attacked the innocent villagers.

You found subjuggalos to be the cause. Of course. This one was probably out of paints, the caravan searched for a suitable place to obtain them and zeroed in on the village. You couldn’t tell if anything good would come out of it, but you decided to protect the village. They might prove useful later. You charged out into the fray, unsheathing your scythes as one of the subjugglators raised his club menacingly, preparing to bury it into an older troll’s skull.

His hand was the first to go, the force of your blow enough to sever it from the wrist. Unsurprisingly, this one laughed through the pain, though his eyes quickly darkened red with rage. He took a mighty swing with his fist, and somehow, his head managed to detach itself from his neck. It wasn’t like _you_ had anything to do with that at all…

You moved quickly through the clowns, sparing no one as you raced through their ranks, only to have one of your scythes knocked out of your hand. You could fight with just one fine enough, but it was unsettling. One of the clowns managed to nick your ear with one of his claws, and you realized truly, how dangerous your job was at this moment. He studied his claw for a minute, confusion painting his face before he realized it’s hue.

“MUTANT!” he bellowed, only to loose his tongue a minute later.

This statement sent the other highbloods into a culling frenzy, reminding you of the dangerous sharp-toothed fish that roamed the sea. You could barely keep up with them with only one scythe, and one came very close to ripping your throat open before an ax buried itself in his chest. You had no time to see where that had come from; they just kept coming, but soon knives joined the fray with flying axes and you began to hope you’d get to pay this savior back. You were irritated with them, but thankful for their assistance.

Once the final subjuggalo laid dead, you picked up the first ax that had been thrown, searching for it’s owner. It was a short one, blade covered in different tones of purple. It jerked in your hand, almost as if being drawn to a magnet. You held on as best as you could, but eventually lost your grip and watched as the ax went soaring into the woods.

Once you found the chief elder, he thanked you a thousand times over for your services, and you finally managed to extract yourself from him, you began packing up your camp. No more stalling. It was time to face _him_.

Deciding to be stereotypical, you attacked at day. You told the slaves to escape into the forest, and wait for a specific signal; a hooters call, before coming out again. They listened raptly, a few of the older ones recognizing you by the way you spoke; slipping into your old thick accent. They encouraged the others to trust you, which was met with some hesitance.

Once this matter was resolved, you found the Master in his hive, still up despite the sun being past the horizon. He was in his study, reading a book. You almost always enjoyed the smell of books and paper, but this place held horrible memories. Its scent was like poison in your sniff nub.

He looked up as you entered the room. You’d kept your cloak on, intending on stowing it away later. It wouldn’t be very useful in a fight. He studied your appearance, but said nothing. You could tell he was calculating who you were and why you were there. He was about a foot taller than you, but that wasn’t saying much. Now that you were older, taller, he didn’t seem very threatening. In fact, he seemed old and weak. He had more gray hairs in his hair than even the Alphabet had possessed. His fins weren’t as full of color as you remembered them to be. The gills on his neck had developed a paler hue as well.

He calmly closed his book and rose out of his chair, placing a hand on the cover. He said nothing, but you sensed the unspoken question. You threw back your hood, revealing your bright eyes. Despite the studies’ curtains being closed, light still made him blink rapidly as he studied your face. You took off the cloak, turning around so he could see the old whiplashes from long ago.

Though he may not have seen the deepest, and biggest of them, he recognized the flurry of others, and it showed on his face. If anything, it seemed to calm him. He even smirked a little when you turned around.

“So you live,” he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. It sent shivers down your back as you remembered times he’d spoken to you with the exact same voice. “I wondered about that. How a mutant would be able to stay alive in the wilderness, and not starve.”

You remained quiet. There was nothing to say.

“After all, you’d never showed any particularly useful traits except the ability to keep your mouth shut. Resistance to pain. The odd amount of strength,” he continued. “That is...until you ripped his head off.”

You nodded, still mute. There would be a time for words, but it hadn’t reached yet.

“And yet, I wondered just how you’d managed to keep something like that hidden. Even adult highbloods have trouble controlling their strength, and yet you gave away nothing. No sign of irregularity other than your disgusting blood,” he was quiet for a minute. “You must know I have orders to cull you.”

You nodded.

“The Empresses demanded your head if I ever managed to find you. You committed a first rate offense. And as much as I’d like to keep you for the...other qualities you possess, I’m afraid I can’t argue with the law.”

Another nod. You could hear two pump biscuits; his and your own.

“And yet, you do not fear death? How utterly noble of you.”

He was mocking you now.

“After all, you’re just a filthy mutant. What I did to you, keeping you alive as my slave...that was a kindness. I should’ve just killed you when those idiot soldiers first brought you to me. You have no place in our society. Well, other than the ones I _made_  for you,”

“You are wrong,” your voice was quiet, but still as regal as it’d been. Vocal cords now used to the abuse of growling and making other primitive noises; perfectly capable of making a beautiful, clear sound to communicate more complexly with him.

“What was that?” he had a look of disdain at being spoken to.

“You are wrong,” you repeated, much louder. “I have a place that is far more superior than yours.”

“And just what might _that_  be?” he scoffed.

You raised your head high, completely unafraid. You knew where you stood. You knew where he stood. And you knew he wouldn’t stand there for much longer. “I am a justicebringer,” you announced; palms up, arms spread in a mimicking fashion to that of a highblood priest. “I right wrongs for no money known on any world, but for the knowledge that I am superior to all in this sense. I have unflawed morals, unflawed motives for what I do. I have already righted many wrongs done to myself in the past, but with your passing…” your mouth curled into a faint smile. “My wrongs will have been righted.”

The Dominion openly laughed at you. It lacked any humor; a cold sound. “Really now? Just how many wrongs have you committed, you little slut?”

“I have committed no wrongs in my acts. Merely repaid what was given to me.”

“And what exactly was that?”

“Pain. Sadness. Anger. Hatred. Fear. Desperation,” you shook your head. “Those who deliver such terrible gifts shall get their presents from me. I have repaid all of those who took my lusus from me. Your overseer is dead, killed long ago from a younger me. And now you are next.”

“You came all this way just to threaten me?”

You finally allowed a twisted smile to show. “Oh, there is no such things as empty threats with the Untahmed,” you drew your scythes, beginning to stalk towards him. “But there is such thing as an empty husk of a troll.”

“You intend to rip open with new mental powers that all of you lowbloods have? I dare you to try that with someone of my blood.”

“I didn’t say it would be mental.”

 

* * *

 

Once you had finished making his innards, out-ards, you used a ripped piece of fabric from his outfit to clean the blood off of your scythe. It had been quick work, and there was nothing left behind that could possible give you away. You had a pleasant hum in your head, the voices pleased with the job. There was a moment of personal rest for you. Your debts had been repaid. You could take a small break before committing to the job the messiah's set before you.

You returned to the forest, making the hooting noise a few times to call the lowblood slaves’ attentions. They looked relieved to see you, some clearly disturbed by the blood that still coated your body like the sticky paint the subjugglators liked to coat themselves with. While this disturbed them, they still trusted you. You were one of them, after all. While this was a double edged sword most of the time, it worked in your favor. You examined all of them, finding them to be in good health for the most part.

The rustblood who had helped you all those sweeps ago expressed her gratitude by bowing. You insisted she stand. Her blood was no less pure or more inferior to you. You were equals. She had committed no crime, nor left any debts unpaid. Many were hungry, which was a simple fix as you showed them things to eat in the forest.

“How will we survive? They’ll sell us back into slavery if we try to go back into society,” a few of them asked you.

“We’ll work that out later. For now, let me show you how to set traps,” you promised, and before long, you’d taught them the basics of surviving in the forest.

You were no fool to this game though. The first place the others would look would be the forest near the Dominion’s land. So you began to lead them to the mountains where few trolls lived, hoping that no one would bother searching there. You’d discovered they were completely faithful to you. But it was to be expected. You’d saved them from a monster. They were grateful to your service and wished to pay you back. You could relate easily to this want.

The base of the mountains proved to be an excellent place to build a temporary village. You’d think of something grander later on, but for now, you were on the hunt. Someone had been following you since that night with the subjugglator attack.

You were unsure of what it was, but you knew it was either very stupid or very confident. It made no attempts to cover up its existence; signs of it were everywhere. It was bigger than you, something that didn’t frighten you, but was noted regardless. You were confident you’d eventually corner it. It hadn’t been after the freed slaves, something you’d discovered after you’d left them a few weeks ago. It was specifically after you.

Your first thought was that it was Imperial soldiers, having finally caught up to you. But that was highly unlikely. Your work was first-class stuff, not a flaw in your plans or your skills. Whoever this was, it couldn’t have been anyone “Imperial”.

Your ears pricked, flicking every now and then as you listened carefully for any hint of movement. Your lips curled into a grin when a twig snapped a bit behind you, coming from your left. Almost delicately, you shifted a bit, catching a flash of blue. You quickly ducked behind a tree, seeing that same blue again as the stranger desperately attempted to conceal themselves. But it was in vain. Your hand reach out and managed to grab an arm, sinking your claws in by accident; but at the same time, on purpose. You weren’t letting them go until you got some answers.

They stopped moving once your hand had snatched them. You pulled them out from behind the tree, revealing a giant of a troll. Or at least, that’s what it seemed to you. You were not short, but this male put you to shame. His hair seemed to have been a bun at some point, but most of it had fallen out, and it went a little past his shoulders. His eyes were a blue, and he had a bit of hair growing in on his chin.

You released him, and drew a scythe, pressing it to his neck. You’d never trusted blues very well. But even as you did that, his hands went up, revealing that he wasn’t armed. A sign of surrender.

“Who are you and why are you following me?” You spat out, glaring at him.

“Easy there. If I’d wanted to harm you, I would’ve done it a long time ago,” his voice seemed vaguely familiar, and though he could be easily killed by you, was still friendly.

“That’s not answering the question, idiot,” you pressed your scythe with more force into his throat.

“Jegus, my name’s Zanaro Hexxus. I was the one who helped you with those subjugglators.”

It was the name, more than anything, that made you stop for just a minute. You brought up a memory of Zanaro’s face and compared it to the one you were looking at now and _wow_ , he’d grown up nicely.

“Zanaro?” You said, your voice suddenly unsure.

“Do we know each other?”

“Ferhal Sckolr. Marketplace, Yaviin, and Boriss. Yaviin was a yellowblood, Boriss was a bronzeblood. You gave me the ball from your game.”

His eyes widened in recognition. “Holy shi-, I mean, holy crap! It’s really you, Ferhal?”

You lessened the pressure on his throat considerably. “Of course it’s me. Do you know anyone with horns like these?” you gestured towards the things you spoke of.

“I mean, these look _nothing_ like the horns I saw when we met. How’d this happen?”

“You can see my eyes, can you not? Mutation.”

Zanaro laughed. “Yeah, that makes sense. Yours seem to be easier to manage than mine though.”

Zanaro’s horns had increased with size, appearing as massive, slightly curved tree branches. They reminded you of the water-milk beast horns you’d seen before.

“I would imagine so. Why are you stalking me?”

“Well, you see, that’s the interesting thing to confess. I um, was kinda spying on you the day before the attack? And I’ve just been following you around, waiting for the moment to talk to you. Truth be told, I completely didn’t recognize you until now. You’ve really grown up, Ferhal.”

“So you’re not trying to cull me?”

“C’mon man, I overheard the slaves talking about you being a tealblood mutant. Can’t tealbloods tell when someone’s lying?

“It is a skill we’re encouraged to develop, yes. But aren’t bluebloods supposed to be really stiff, and hardasses?”

Zanaro laughed. “Yeah, but as you can tell, I’m not very good at confirming to the rules.”

You allowed yourself the smallest hints of a smile. “Neither am I for the most part. But yes, I can tell when people are lying.”

“If I’m not lying, mind letting me go?”

You released him, somewhat reluctantly. “You’ve been following me this entire time? Why didn’t you just walk up to me?”

“Well after I saw what you did to the Dominion, I wasn’t really eager to have a repeat of that,” Zanaro reached up to scratch his head.

For the first time in your life, you felt a small twinge of an apology. It was very brief, your mind quickly reminding you why it had to be done, but it was enough to make you reassure him.

“You needn’t worry. He was responsible for the deaths of many, torturing many souls. It was my duty to bring those souls the justice they deserved, as well as resolving my final bit of revenge. I now have no more debts to be paid except for yours. And that will be a much sweeter debt to repay compared to the things I’ve been doing in the last sweep.”

Zanaro raised his eyebrows. “What exactly _have_ you been doing?”

“Things that should not concern you. They’ve been done and cannot be reversed.”

You heard the telltale growl of a digestive sack rumbling. It was probably Zanaro’s, who seemed so thin, despite his tallness.

“I’m guessing you’re hungry?”

Zanaro nodded, smiling a little. “I guess I am.”

“Come with me. The least I can do is at least feed you,” you sniffed the air briefly before your sniff nub wrinkled. “And offer a bath.”

His expression turned sheepish. “Sorry, haven’t really been thinking about personal hygiene while I was tracking you.”

“One should always think about personal hygiene. It’s important that one stays clean while tracking, otherwise the hunt will have been forfeited by the stench of your body.”

You sheathed your remaining scythe, and grabbed his hand, leading him back to the camp. As expected, many of the freed slaves were nervous about the blueblood, but you assured them he was mostly harmless. They offered him some of their grubloaf, some hopper meat, and roasted nuts to go with it. He devoured it gratefully. The others watched him with curiosity, wondering where he’d come from and why he was in the shape he was in despite being a blueblood.

“Thanks for the food,” he told them once he’d finished.

The old burgundy, which you’d come to think of as the head of this group while you were away, nodded at him. “We know what it’s like to be hungry. If the Untahmed trusts you, then you must be good.”

He looked up at you with a teasing grin on his face. “‘The Untahmed’, huh?”

Your ears flicked in annoyance, though it was the happy kind. “I do not question any title you may hold. You may not question mine.”

“No, no, I think it’s...very _you_.”

You huffed and dragged him to the pond near the mountains, where the people had begun using as an ablution trap until they could get their own. You ordered him to undress and snatched the filthy clothes once he was done, commanding him to enter the water, and promising him that no seadwellers lurked below.

On a rock outcropping, you dunked the clothes in the water, uncapchalouging a bundle of things you owned specifically for this purpose. You’d given him some of your homemade soap to clean up with.

“Are you going to be staying with them?” Zanaro asked.

“No. I cannot show favoritism. I must remain equal, and help others in need.”

“Did you help other people while you were out doing your whole ‘revenge’ thing?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” 

There was a pause, devoid of any of the awkwardness that would be present if you’d been speaking to anyone else. It was comfortable and natural. You couldn’t help but notice that the clothing you were washing; while considerably better than the garb you’d been dressed in upon freedom, was essentially the same thing.

“You weren’t kidding about being a servant, were you?”

“Me? Nah. I mean, the role was probably better than being a slave like the rest of them. But it wasn’t very pretty. It wasn’t like any old job that you could just quit. Quitting meant that you were disobeying the path set before you by the messiahs. It was blasphemous. I’d get culled for my blood if I tried to quit.”

“How did you even get such a job?”

“My ancestor had a debt to pay. So he promised me to this subjugglators descendant, as his personal servant or whatever. From the minute I was old enough to understand that I was a servant, I had to do whatever they told me. It was horrible.”

You were quiet for awhile. “Because I’m a mutant, I was told there were only two options; be a slave the rest of my life, or be culled for my freak ways. There was no other way, no third path to follow. Instead of listening to such a thing, I took my scythes and crafted a new path for me, a new use. You could do the same with your axes, should you so choose to do so.”

Zanaro smiled, and drifted over to you, careful to keep everything below his torso underwater. “You offering a job?”

“I have no need of you, that I can think of. I was merely suggesting you blaze your own trail. Become who you want to become. Do what you want to do. You already disobey the expectations for your blood caste. Further, break the rules by doing what makes you happy and content.”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind working with you for awhile,” he smiled a bit. “You seem like a pretty awesome boss.”

You snorted. “I work alone. Including another person would be disastrous.”

“Well, you’re stuck with me, princess. I’m staying with you like a bloodgrub does to your leg when you wade through water.”

You wrinkled your sniff nub at the analogy. “I do not like to think of those nasty things. They are vile, even to me.”

“Perhaps a more appropriate one will come up later?”

“Depends on your creativity.”

Zanaro flashed another impish grin at you. This time, you returned it.

“I believe I’ve come up with the perfect title for you,” You said, giving his clothes a final dunk in the water.

“Oh really, what’s that?” his tone was flirtatious, a grin still playing on his face; his long fangs poking out, making him look rather fearsome while he expressed his happiness.

“‘The Wildcard’,” you replied, hanging up the garments so they could dry. You untied your skirt, finally wishing to wander in the cool water with your clothing on. “Because no one can ever tell what you’re going to do next.”

Zanaro raised his eyebrows. “Not that I’m not delighted in your genius regarding titles, but what are you up to?”

You allowed a smirk to grace your face. “Tackling you.”

Before he could comment on what you’d said, you sprung from your crouch and made a splash as you did as you’d promised; tackling him into the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really need to remember to put a vocab thing at the end of these. Anyways, hope you enjoyed it! We had a drastic pause in which I had to write all 11-12 pages of this mess of a chapter. Somewhere in there, while writing, I got bored. You might've noticed those parts. Anyways, chapter eight will be up at some point, once I write it. I still need to work out the details of four(?) other ancestors, since we just had two other people join my project, another person is being slightly annoying (only slightly) and not cooperating with me. I don't really want this story to take very long, so hopefully, everyone gives me information soon. Anyways, I'm off! We have NECAP testing today -_-


	8. Training For Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Untahmed has some issues that may not have been resolved, any and all quadrants are probably vallicating between those two and secretly, everyone ships everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm alive. I was working on other projects for awhile. Typically, I give notice before giving up on projects like this, so don't worry if it's not updated in awhile. School's ending soon, and I'm trying to juggle 20 million things, as usual.

=> Be the irritated troll

That’s a simple enough request to obey. Being irritated is a rather obvious effect of your travel companion annoying you. You and Zanaro had been traveling for quite some time, attempting to return to the Alphabet’s hive for an “emergency wardrobe change”, as Zanaro put it. He was anxious to obtain better clothing, that made him look less like a servant and more like a free troll. He’d already begun to wear his hair down. It was a little longer than it had been when you were younger, but still just as messy. He kept his axes on his hips; a piece of rope securing them there until he could figure out something better.

Zanaro was a pleasant travel companion, at least at first. He offered a bit of friendly chatter and had a small amount of knowledge concerning plants that were good for healing. He was a fast learner, quick to correct himself when you complained of his obnoxiously loud footsteps, careful to stay out of your way while you hunted for a decent meal. But his habits of not taking things very seriously; constantly switching from one thing to the other, and being all around unpredictable. You suppose it’s natural for him.

“Are we almost there?” he groaned.

You softly growled. “We’ll be there when we’re there, now shut your trap and keep moving.”

“But I’m so booooooooooooooooored,” he replied, draping himself across a tree branch. “Don’t you do anything but walk?”

“We would’ve been there days ago, had you not been walking improperly during my hunt!”

“Well, maybe I wouldn’t have been walking wrong if you had told me you were trying to hunt!”

“Well, maybe  _ you _ should start paying more attention!”

“Well, maybe you-”

“Both of you, cease that racket before I have to auspistice,” a familiar, slightly timid yet warm tone scolded through the woods. The Alphabet pushed a few branches out of the way before fully emerging. “Good lord, I haven’t seen anything that pitch in a long time.”

Both of you looked at each other, looked away and began stammering out explanations.

“He’s not my...we’re not-”

“She’s not...I don’t hate her like-”

“Enough, both of you. Who your kismesis is is none of my business. I’m not your moirail.” the Alphabet waved her hands as if to clear a cloud of flying insects.

“He’s not my kismesis!”

“Well, he’s well on his way to it. Ease up on the black flirting, Ferhal.”

You gave an irritated hiss, flattening your ears a little.

“Now then, why are you here? I’d have thought you’d been out doing some job or have built a hive somewhere and you’d eventually invite me and the boys down for a bit of hot herbal drink--”

“I hate that gunk--” you interjected.

“But then I find you and this fellow yelling at each other in the forest. What’s going on?”

You took a deep breath to steady yourself. “This is Zanaro. Zanaro; the Alphabet.”

The Alphabet widened her eyes. “The boy from the market? How on Alternia did you find each other?”

“That is a very long story that includes some blood, guts and a few death threats,” Zanaro interjected. “Probably rated M for mature adults.”

By now, the Alphabet had led you both back to her little hive. She opened the door, and let you in, guiding you to the entertainmentblock. You took a seat on the cushioned bench; Zanaro following your lead. Both of you had to bend over in order to fit. Your horns had surpassed any expectations you’d had for them.

“So why have you brought this fellow back here? And why have I not received a single letter from you since then?”

“I’ve been slightly busy,” you muttered. “Justice never sleeps.”

“And neither do you, so why didn’t you write?”

“It slipped my mind, I apologize.”

The Alphabet sighed, then smiled wearily. “At least you’re here now.”

There was a momentary pause before you decided to speak again. “I was wondering if you could make Zanaro better clothes since you did so well with mine. And I wanted to know if we could stay for awhile, while I train him.”

“Of course. I doubt the clothes will be very good, but I’m glad to hear yours haven’t fallen to shreds, what with all you do.”

You blinked rapidly. Surely she didn’t know...did she?

“I suspected,” The Alphabet said as a way of explaining. “That, and all the news that’s been going around lately. Many of the people in the city are scared, even if most of them are lowbloods. But I suspected it’d have to be you. You, with all of your talk of revenge and stuff. And I did hear you mutter once or twice about justice needed and debts repaid.”

“You...you’re not afraid of me?” you asked, feeling a bit vulnerable. She was practically your lusus, except you had a closer bond with her than you’d ever had for Feathers….

“Of course not. You’re my child. I raised you, and I know you. You’re not going to attack me for ‘no reason’, as they like to word it with all the other deaths.”

“I would never attack you. You are a pure soul, untainted by any debts needing to be repaid-”

“I know,” she cut you off. “Which is why I’m not afraid for my own safety. What I am afraid of, is  _ your _ safety. How do I know you’re not going to end up dead like so many others?”

You snorted, finally a bit more at ease. “Mother, my skills are far superior to any mediocre killer. I am a justicebringer, favored by the messiahs. They can’t touch me.”

“I can see that being humble is not in your line of work,” Zanaro coughed.

You whacked him hard. “I am not bragging. I’m merely stating truths.”

“You are so totally bragging.”

“Shut up!”

“Make me.” There was that teasing grin again. It was so irritating...wait, what? This was definitely some black feelings. Perhaps your mentor wasn’t as far off as you’d previously thought her to be.

You growled a little, letting your fangs flash in the light as you bared your teeth. Zanaro merely relaxed a bit more; crossing his arms behind his head and smiling a lazy smile. The Alphabet chuckled.

“I haven’t seen something so comfortably black in a long time. It’s good to know caliginous still exists.”

You snorted. “I told you, he’s not my kismesis.”

“Not now, but perhaps at a later date.”

Zanaro laughed a little. “Who knows, maybe.”

You shot him a glare, but he gave a pseudo-innocent smile. Your mentor rose out of her seat.

“Now then, I do believe I can help you with your wardrobe attire, as well as make a few other outfits for you two if you wish, but I will need to find my books again. Obviously, you cannot stay in my hive, as you’re both far too large for this tiny place, but I’d be willing to loan you some blankets for a camping area.”

“We already have blankets, mentor,” you replied. “I keep a camp pack with me in my sylladex at all times.”

“Good girl. Now, you’re free to do whatever you wish; you’re adults. But I’d like you to remember the rules of my hive: take care of my books and clean up any mess you may make. And  _ ask _ before taking. Especially with my books.”

“Of course, mentor.”

“Now, you go on and do whatever you want. Just be careful leaving the hive. I don’t want any holes in my entrance.”

You did as she asked, the Alphabet already skimming her bookshelves, searching for what she needed. Zanaro followed you and assisted with the setting up of camp. It was already beginning to grow light outside, and though you knew the zombie population was probably more hellish than it had been when you’d been around to keep it in check, you weren’t bothered at all by being out in the open.

Zanaro unrolled his sleeping mat and flopped onto it, crossing his arms behind his head again. He sighed. “Man, you sure these trees are gonna protect us from the sun? I don’t want to get a sunburn, those things hurt like a bitch.”

“I am certain of it. They provide adequate sun protection. I used to roam these woods when I was younger during the daytime, and I was never bothered by it.”

Zanaro whistled, long and low. “Damn, girl. You are even more hardcore than I thought.”

You rolled your eyes as you set up your sleeping mat as well. It was quiet for a minute before Zanaro spoke again.

“Do you think we’ll ever claim space one of these days?”

“Hmm?”

“Space. Y’know, that area that exists outside of our planet and stuff? The stars?”

“Oh. I’m not sure.”

“I think we will.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Our race is very greedy. Very dominant. We want to control everything, not just our own people. And you know the Empresses. They’ll do whatever it takes to get the job done.”

“Fair enough.”

Zanaro paused for a moment. “You don’t seem too upset about that.”

“Zanaro, if I really wanted to, I could probably take out those fushiablooded twats with a flick of the finger. They are no threat to me.”

“Ferhal, these ladies have lived eons, and you claim you could easily take one? You’re off your rocker.”

“I’m off my what?”

“Rocker. It’s that chair that your mentor sat in. Highblood word mixed with a lowblood expression.”

“Impressive. Do you like to mix slang like that?”

“Hell yeah. The rules don’t apply to me, sweet pea.”

“What is a ‘sweet pea’?”

“Term of endearment. Also a kind of vegetable.”

“What is a vegetable?”

“Plant stuff. Y’know, that shit you eat out in the woods.”

“It is not shit. It makes me stronger, and you know it.”

“Pfft. Darling, if I really wanted to, I bet you I could give you a run for your money in the strength department. You don’t serve highbloods without bulking up a bit. And I may not look like it, but I could probably rip someone's head off.”

“Ha. That’s a laugh. I’ve ripped someone's air sacs out before, beat that.”

“Sweet jegus, you need to chill or something. Are we always going to just be killing people?”

“Not all the time. Sometimes, I like to help lowbloods with tasks that do not require blood being spilled.”

“Good to know.”

You twisted your head around to look at Zanaro, pulling your blanket up further. “Why do you call me these ‘terms of endearment’?”

Zanaro looked at you and laughed a bit. “Man, if you haven’t figured it out by now, I dunno what to tell you.”

“Come on, tell me!”

“Nope. My lips are sealed.”

* * *

 

The next night, you were teaching Zanaro the many ways of creative killing. He was fascinated.

“So wait, the goal is to make the kill as creative as possible?” he asked.

“Yes,” you replied, slinging your arms across one of your scythes that rested on your back. “We want to attempt to make each kill as unique as possible, even if it means only changing one minor detail to do the job. For example: if you’ve killed a man during the day, do it during the night. Or, if it’s a clear night, kill them during the day.”

“And changing these minor variables helps you?”

“Yes. I’m still alive with my head firmly pressed on my shoulders, am I not?”

“So is there any other way you keep from getting caught?” he asked, casually throwing an ax into the air, and then catching it as it flipped to the proper position.

“You leave no evidence that the legislators can use against you. You keep your hair firmly under your cloak. You search the area for any signs of yourself, and if there are any, you clean them up to make them perfectly devoid of any evidence tipping you off. And if you must, you learn different strife specibus, or use your preferred strife in an unorthodox manner.”

“Is that really how you keep from getting caught?”

“Well, those methods are the basic gist, yes. But another thing is that you must leave no witnesses. Do your job when no one else is around. That way, an innocent does not need to be wrongfully killed.”

“Wouldn’t they  _not_ be innocent if they saw that?”

“They did not commit a horrific act like our victims, therefore they are not in need of having a debt repaid.”

“You talk like a subjugglator preaches about the messiah's,” Zanaro grumbled. “Talk normal troll, for the love of jegus.”

“Justice is a universal language,” you countered.

“So is modern Alternian. You’d think since I was the one who practically grew up around subjugglators that I’d be the one to talk like this but  _ noooooo _ , it had to be you.”

“Instead of complaining like the little bleatbeast that you are, why don’t we get down to the actual lesson?”

“What? You lecturing me wasn’t the lesson?”

You resisted the urge to smack him. Out of all the quadrants, you could have filled, black was not your first pick.

“It was  _ a _ lesson, but not  _ the _ lesson that I shall be teaching you right now.”

“And what is  _ the _ lesson?” Zanaro caught his ax for the last time as he looked at you.

“The lesson that you are to learn now is how to properly defend yourself against someone as skilled as me,” You used your right hand to take your scythe down from its resting place, and stuck it in the dirt, leaning away from it a little. “I also wish to test what you do and do not know. This will assist me in the teaching process.”

Zanaro considered this, then smiled a little. “Alright, princess. Come at me.”

You were surprised when your swing was met by a block from Zanaro’s singular ax that was already out. He was completely concentrated, all traces of his usual humor torn away by a dead-serious face. You found that incredibly uncharacteristic of him, but you shrugged away your concerns, backflipping away as he drew his other ax and attempted to bash your skull in. Reaching around under your right arm, you pulled your other scythe from its strife sheath and blocked him again in an X formation.

The two of you alternated attacks and defenses, unable to get under the other's radar. But as you observed him, Zanaro was incredibly stiff, as if he were following a fighting pattern that was not his own. It reminded you of the other stuffy indigos--bluebloods--and that simply was not what Zanaro was. You slipped under his defenses using an older move of yours, and he found himself with a scythe at his throat again.

The somewhat blank look on his face vanished, and he grinned weakly.

“You’re not half bad, y’know?”

“Who taught you how to fight in such a shit manner?” you demanded.

“My ancestor before he died. Something about the whole ‘You must bring honor to our family name, Zanaro. None of that uncouth subjugglator fighting.’ Fucking bullshit is what that is.”

“For once, I agree with you. What I just witnessed is not you. How did your ancestor even survive for that long?”

“Like I said, my ancestor had a debt to pay. He could pay it in gold or his own head, but he came up with a compromise. He’d offer his descendant to the subjugglators as a servant; really, more like a glorified slave. So the bargain was made, and I was forced to suffer for my ancestor's idiocy.”

“That’s awful,” you said after a while, shaking your head. “Is he still alive?”

“No, I think a subjugglator killed him,” Zanaro’s reply made you look back at him sharply. This was not a truthful answer.

“You are lying,” you said flatly, low so that only he could hear it. “You were the one who killed him, weren’t you?”

“Well, it wasn’t as if he was terribly strong after all that time!” Zanaro retorted. “I suppose you’re going to kill me too, just as you did the others?”

“Of course not,” you snorted. “As far as I’m concerned, you were merely acting out of your own justice. The debt is repaid. And I still owe you for saving my life, as much as it pains me to say it.”

Zanaro finally smiled. “You really don’t like owing people, huh?”

“Of course not. People can  _ own _ you that way. I don’t want to belong to anyone ever again.”

“I can understand that,” Zanaro said quietly. “Mind letting me up?”

You quickly stepped away, sheathing your scythes to help tug Zanaro up, but he was having none of that. He brushed the dirt off of him and scratched his head.

“So I’m guessing you want me to develop my own style?”

“Yes. I want to see  _ you _ come out in what you do. None of that predictable blueblood-knight fighting. They are absolutely the most stuffy blood caste I’ve ever seen fight, and you know of my dislike for almost all highbloods except for you.”

“Darling, according to some  _ you’re _ a highblood.”

“I’m a mutant, and therefore disqualified when I say so.”

“You can’t have it both ways.”

“Fight me.”

Zanaro started laughing. “Messiahs, you’re adorable.”

You considered this for a moment. No one had ever called you ‘adorable’ before. Most called you a number of rather unflattering things, but never ‘adorable’. So as a result, you actually blushed--you, a practically emotionless justicebringer,  _ blushing _ because someone had called you adorable. What on Alternia was going on here?

To cover up the unfamiliar expression, you smacked him on the back of the head. “Come, we need to build up your stamina and flexibility.”

* * *

 

A few days later, the Alphabet sent you in town to fetch more grain and cloth for her projects. She managed to make you a rough set of baggy t-shirts and pants so the two of you wouldn’t stand out too much. She also sewed your signs on the simple clothing. You wrapped your cloak around yourself begrudgingly, forgetting for a few minutes that you’d be culled if your eyes were not hidden. It was rather unfair. You wanted to be able to walk down the streets without worrying about some idiot attempting to remove your head from its place on your neck.

Zanaro calmed you by suggesting that you visit Yaviin and Boriss. That was a far more cheerful suggestion since you were curious to see the status of their quadrants after a few sweeps away. The city was certainly different from the last time you’d visited. Everyone was cautious and suspicious, looking around and eying you and Zanaro suspiciously. The lowbloods gave him a wide berth, but you walked next to him unthinkingly. As a result, a few shot glares at you for your “disrespect”. Zanaro didn’t seem to care as he looked around.

You walked to the grainry and requested two sacks of bread-dust; casually leaning on the counter with your arms folded. Zanaro, meanwhile, was exploring.

“So this is where you got your bread when you were younger?” he asked excitedly.

“Yes. The Alphabet always made me come. I’m not quite sure why. Hopefully, we can find Yaviin and then journey to Boriss’ workplace.”

“Oh, are you looking for Yaviin?” a younger rustblood asked you. “He’s out back. But I have to ask you why you’re looking for him. Dangerous times and all.” She laughed weakly, then cast a fearful look towards Zanaro.

“Yaviin is an old friend of mine. We haven’t seen each other in a long time, and I want to catch up with him for awhile.”

“Can I have a name to give to him?”

“Ferhal Sckolr,” you were tempted to let your eyes flash at her, but that wouldn’t be very helpful for your survival.

Once the rustblood had rushed off, you grabbed Zanaro’s outer sound sponge. “Stop wandering around the room, you dolt,” you hissed. “You’re making everyone here nervous.”

“I’m not making  _ you _ nervous though.”

“I’m not as short as the others. They have a good reason to fear random bluebloods that enter this lowblood store.”

“Fair enough. Mind letting go of the sound sponge, sweetheart?”

You dug your claws into his outer sound sponge for a brief minute as a warning, but let him go. He rubbed at it, flashing you an annoyed look.

The rustblood came back with the familiar yellowblood who no longer looked like a gangly teenager and instead looked more like a gangly adult who still didn’t know what to do with his long limbs. He grinned at you.

“Well, I never thought I’d see the day when I’d see Ferhal Sckolr again. How are you?”

“I’m well,” you cast a look around the room as the bronzeblood you’d sent off to get the grain returned. Zanaro took the bags, flashing him a grin that was probably intended to reassure him, but instead scared him as he saw a mouthful of sharp teeth. “Could we perhaps visit Boriss before we must depart from the city?”

“Sure, my shifts about done anyways.” Once you left the grainy, Yaviin stopped smiling. “The others thought you two were attempting to cull me, so I had to convince them that you wouldn’t touch me. But it’s best we stay in public area so they don’t suspect anything.” he hissed.

You nodded. “Yaviin, this is Zanaro. He’s the one who we watched play that game with the purplebloods. He’s good.”

Yaviin looked relieved. “I haven’t seen a highblood in the grainry before, and neither have the others. I think you scared them to death.”

“Wonderful. That was exactly what I was going for.” Zanaro muttered, rubbing his arms as if to keep warm.

“It’s not your fault. It’s the Empresses,” you replied, reaching to touch his arm reassuringly, but Yaviin knocked your hand away.

“Not the place or the time. Though your display of pity is lovely.”

You heard the clang of hammers on metal, and Yaviin disappeared inside for a few minutes. You heard arguing over the loud noises, and eventually, Yaviin reappeared with a stronger, glaring Boriss. Boriss’ face hadn’t changed very much from his younger days, but now he was sporting a scar on his cheek, and definitely had more muscle mass than you remembered.

He brightened up considerably upon seeing you, smiling warmly as he hugged you, despite being rather sweaty and gross. You ignored it for awhile.

“Well, I never thought I’d see you again, kiddo. How’ve you been?” he said upon releasing you.

“Can’t complain, I suppose. My duty keeps me busy,” you replied. “I’ve recently taken Zanaro under my metaphorical wing. He has no complaints thus far.”

Boriss nodded. “That’s good. I hope Yaviin has told you of the...situation around here?”

“I have the gist,” you assured him. “The Alphabet probably wouldn’t be unopposed to having hot herbal drinks with you two. Of course, as an older rustblood, who lives in a hive away from the city, it’s highly unlikely they’d find her very threatening.” you kept your voice low to avoid anyone around overhearing you.

“We’d love some hot herbal drinks,” Yaviin replied. “Tomorrow night?”

You nodded.

Boriss made a face. “I hate that leaf-spit.”

You surprised yourself and everyone around you by laughing hysterically. Such an act is not common with you, but Zanaro put the two and two together and soon joined in. You were pretty certain that Zanaro would’ve been willing to laugh at almost anything: he was too fond of sharing happiness and displaying his own joy to find your own outburst strange or offsetting.

Eventually, you both calmed down from your laughing fits and found that the moon would be disappearing soon. And with it, would come the sun. You bid your friends goodbye, and made the journey home, giving the Alphabet the supplies you’d picked up. You briefly mentioned the hot herbal drink time with Boriss and Yaviin, but she merely nodded and waved you away.

Once you’d emerged from the hive, you found no trace of Zanaro. Which immediately made you suspicious. Any time a rather large highblood seemed to disappear, you were inclined to be on guard. You assumed your feral crawl. You were quite fond of it, even if it disturbed many people. It made you feel safer, especially since it opened so many more moves. You moved across the ground, an odd combination of wild grace and predatory power. You kept your sniff nub working; constantly scenting the air as your ears swiveled around to catch every little noise.

But there was none. Only that of your bones smashing into his as he tackling you to the ground. You snarled as you were pinned down, but Zanaro merely grinned at you. He was essentially straddling you. Once you’d returned to the Alphabet’s hive, you’d changed into your standard attire, but Zanaro had kept his simple shirt and pants in favor of his older outfit. You could understand why.

But Zanaro pinning your arms down in a manner you were uncomfortably familiar with forced so many of your repressed memories out from the deep recesses of your think pan. You attempted to get away, snarling and growling, but Zanaro didn’t let go until he saw your eyes. They must have been pinpricks for him to stop smiling like that. He immediately released your arms, but he wasn’t going to get off of you anytime soon. You were somewhat okay with that though.

“Hey, you okay?” he asked, his face somewhat troubled now.

You made a conscious effort to calm your face--more specifically, your eyes--as you replied. “I’m fine,” you replied, gritting it out through his teeth.

“You are not ‘fine’. What’s going on?”

“Old suppressed memories from my youth,” you inhaled a deep, comforting breath of air. “Slavery was not meant to be kind to me. I was used in all sorts of ways, even though I was far too young to even be considered…” you cut yourself off. “The point is, I do not like being restrained. It sets me off, makes Rages come through.”

Zanaro was quiet for a moment before he seemed to get it. His face twisted with disgust. “You mean that...he did...are you  _ kidding _ me right now?”

You shook your head.

“The more I learn about the stuff that happens to people like you, the more I lack faith in our horrible government system,” He glanced down at you. “Are you okay with this?”

“To what do you refer to?”

“Me, sitting on you. Because if it upsets you, I will gladly move. And look for some motherfucker so I can properly cull them for this crap.”

“You are not my moirail, Zan,” you said sharply. You paused for a minute, softening your voice. “But I do appreciate you asking. I’m fine with this. Just leave my arms be.”

He nodded once, then seemed to be thinking. “I don’t really pity you in the pale sense, sister,” he said after a while, speaking so quietly that you had to pay absolute attention to him. “Sometimes I do want to take care of you, but not platonically. You’ve somehow gotten me all up and confused on where my quadrants are. Sometimes black, and sometimes red. Mostly red though. How’d you do that?”

It dawned on you that he was perhaps, confessing feelings for you. “Talent,” you suggested. “Perhaps you wish to punch me sometimes, but you also want to take care of me in the process, because you see a troll who’s gone through so much.”

“I think it’s both of those. I’m a highblood, you know how we are with conquering and crap. I respect you, but sometimes, I find myself a little mad that you can do things so easily. And then I smack myself for that cause you had to figure all of it out or be culled,” Zanaro sighed. “I’m really confused, Ferhal.”

“Well,” you gave a tentative smile. “Let me know when you figure it out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm attempting to write longer chapters to get to more interesting things. There will likely be a major time skip next chapter, but I'm unsure as to how I'm going to add a couple more ancestors to this mess. We might meet V's ancestor next because she's kinda important as far as plot goes, but my moirails ancestor won't be seen until MUCH later as much as it pains me to say that. I actually enjoyed writing this particular chapter, as it's amusing to see Zan and Ferhal interact, no matter which case.
> 
> By the way, if any of you have read that other little one-shot I posted awhile back on the dancestor versions of Zanaro and Ferhal, you may be wondering "why do they seem to be acting more red than black here??" Alternative Ferhal had a lot more anger and issues than the Untahmed. The Untahmed never had a malfunction with her pity gland, so there's not as much hate.


	9. A True Justicebringer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new face is introduced, Zanaro proves himself and Ferhal illegally transports a greenblood pupa to that place that we're not supposed to mention.

=> Be the troll with new clothes

You are absolutely thrilled to have new clothes. The Alphabet is officially the coolest mentor ever. No questions asked. She even helped you with some of it, answering your questions and smiling at your jokes. You’d been camping around her hive for  _ ages _ now, training and learning all of the things that Ferhal insisted that you learn, and now it’s paid off. She deemed you ready yesternight and expressed her joy at you joining her as a justicebringer.

It was one of the things that she did that made you feel warm and fuzzy on the inside, but you didn’t dare express that. She’d likely kick you in the bulge. Which, in itself, had its own appeal in a really unhealthy blackrom sense. You decided you needed to get your thinkpan checked. But for now, Ferhal had decided to move out from the Alphabets area to carry on with her job. You were taking on small tasks for now. Her next aim was to destroy the next slave masters plantation. But you two needed to become more in sync if it was going to work.

You could get in on that idea. Now with the sweet new shirt, pants, and boots you had, you finally felt free of your old employers, and could joyfully bash someone's head in if they touched your mate--friend. Definitely friend. Nothing more.

...you are so screwed.

But despite the danger and risk to it all, you were enjoying your new life. It led you to different places you’d never seen before. It led you to lowbloods who gradually became accustomed to your large size as you got your job done. And it led you to discover more and more about yourself and the world. You were wholeheartedly in agreement when it came to Ferhal’s rants against the hemocaste system, and were willing to stand up to the Empresses yourself if it came down to that.

Ferhal was always writing in this large book that she kept tucked away in her sylladex. You noticed this because she stayed up practically all day long when neither of you had a job, just writing in it. Sometimes, she’d tap the softer part of her head--you’d forgotten what it was called, you knew it was a good place to bash someone--and a thin, shining line would follow her fingers into the book where it would rest. You weren’t sure if that was technology or magic, but either one was just as unlikely. You never bothered questioning her about it though.

The lowbloods eventually grew fond of her, the few people who actually understood that it was  _ her _ doing all of the work. You suspected the Empire would eventually make a strike back. You’d already overheard blueblooded soldiers talking about how angry the Knhitter was that there was someone going around, killing off some rather important people. She’d been royally pissed off when she’d heard about the Dominion’s death. Something about the ancient seadweller holding a lot of influence in his pocket, and now that he was dead, many of the others began to question her authority.

The Knhitter was the main figurehead of the entire Empire. Like a spear needs a point, she led everyone. Head of all military operations and the main mouthpiece, she was the cause for many a culling. She was frequently seen on picture screens and broadcasts. You never failed to notice how Ferhal’s lip would curl with completely platonic contempt.

The Designer, on the other hand, was less known about. Rumored to be the shyer of the two, she never appeared on broadcasts or picture screens. The only reason anyone even knew she existed, was because her hatchmate would constantly emphasize that she existed. Oh, and because she wrote the laws. The Designer was very much a crafter of the laws that held all Alternian citizens responsible for several crimes. You had a feeling that you’d probably meet them both one night.

If not you, then certainly Ferhal.

There was a plan in place in case either of you was ever captured, or even captured together. Ferhal would take the blame, either way, saying that even though she wasn’t guilty of any crime, she would still rather take the fall than you. You deduced it was because of the “debt” she owed you. You’d saved her life once, it’d be her job to keep you alive. Even so, you knew you were more likely of being culled before her, simply because you’d failed to cull her.

But you weren’t one to dwell on dark thoughts. That was more of Ferhal’s forte.

Your current job was something you’d taken together, and it was certainly one of the better jobs you’d worked on. Ferhal had come across a lowblood village in search of hired help to do whatever they needed, let it be helping harvesting the things they grew for food or protecting them from bandits, raiders, and drones. Thus far, you’d scared half of the younger lowbloods who lived in the town with your sharp teeth, tall stature and the axes that were constantly by your side, you’d knocked over a sign, was ordered not to enter any of the buildings because of your horns, had people ask if you were a former drone because most bluebloods took that position upon reaching their adult molts, and impressed them all by eating a whole watermelon...which, for some strange reason, they called it a “water gourd”.

You were both currently standing as sentries when a pupa of no more than three approached you; beaten up and wearing torn clothes. Based on the slight tint to his skin, you were betting on a greenblood perhaps. He glanced fearfully towards you and looked around. Seeing that your friend was not anywhere close by, he sighed and cautiously stepped closer.

“Are you what they call a ‘justicebringer’?” he asked, his voice squeaky.

“Yup,” you replied. “What’s up?”

“I have a job for you,”

“What is it?”

He looked around again. “Don’t you work with another person?”

It dawned on you that the boy was more interested in asking Ferhal for help than you. Which was understandable. She had an odd way of convincing people to sway to her side; natural charisma making her irresistible. That wasn’t to say there were people that didn’t like her. She had plenty of foes. It was just that she covered up any obvious irritation to their stupidity or rudeness with a completely blank face and measured tone.

“Do you want to talk someplace a little more secure?” you asked, hoping the pupa would catch the hint and follow you to the makeshift hive you’d carved out of a nearby cave in the hills.

Fortunately, he caught your meaning and nodded mutely, rubbing his arms as if to warm them when his gaze dropped. You glanced around to ensure you were alone and there really wasn’t any threat of attack out there before leading the boy to the hive. It was a quick walk for you, but you had to remember to slow your gait. Even Ferhal, who’s head just managed to reach your shoulders had ordered you to slow down when you were really interested in going someplace.

Once you reached the hive, you encouraged the boy to sit down on one of the pelts you used for a slime-less recuperacoon. Ferhal was allergic, and you were probably the most stable highblood out there. You’d grown used to sleeping in the soft pelts and would say that it was even more comfortable than a coon had you not been so amused by annoying Ferhal. Sometimes. She reacted in the rawest, honest way compared to others. It was quite adorable sometimes.

The boy seemed confused as to why your hive lacked a coon, but you didn’t feel like explaining to him. You had to track down Ferhal. She never stood still when playing sentry. She would patrol the area, sniffing out different things and catching the trails of others. If the sun hurt her, she made no indication of it. It did bother you. Daytime was always so  _ hot _ . You’d been standing in the shade of a tree before the pupa had approached you.

Fortunately, you’d become a master of picking up the insanely subtle traces of Ferhal, and found her with little, to no problem. She didn’t jump when you appeared behind her, but merely glanced at you as if to say  _ It took you that long?? _

“A greenblood pupa just came up to me, asked if I was a justicebringer, I answered, he says he’s got a job for us,” you explained.

“You are certain he isn’t a spy?” she asked.

You sighed heavily, “I’ve told you, my chucklevoodoos aren’t powerful enough to pick up on stuff like that. I have to really,  _ really _ concentrate in order to use the little bit that I have.”

She was already hopping off of her perch on the tree branch, landing gracefully in a crouch and then rising again to walk; almost always sticking to rocks and tree roots to make the least amount of noise. You followed her path, but with a lot less grace than she had. Upon reaching the hive, her eyes snapped to the small, ragged form of the greenblood. She sat next to him on the pelt, making her posture as non-threatening as possible.

“What happened to you, pupa?” she asked. It wasn’t very kind words, but it was in the kindest voice she could muster.

You listened in horror as the young greenblood recounted his tale. He’d been captured by a seadweller and sold to a ceruleanblood, who then used him as a pail like so many before him. His lusus had been killed by drones before that and had nearly starved before the seadweller found him. His moirail had been a rustblood servant to the cerulean, later culled because of their relationship. He’d recently escaped the cerulean and was now searching for a place to stay. But before that, he wanted justice.

Several times during his story, he broke down and started crying. When that happened, Ferhal would gently wrap an arm around him. You could tell she was attempting to resist the urge to shoosh him, something she’d done to injured and distressed creatures before. It was inappropriate with other trolls, especially a young one like him, but she did her best to comfort.

You offered him some of the food you had in your sylladex, and he took it gratefully. Ferhal offered him a gourd full of water, and he drank it all quickly. She let him sleep on her pelt, and told him that she would track down the cerulean if it was the last thing she’d ever do. And then she gestured for you to step outside with her.

“Do you understand why I do this now?” Ferhal asked, her voice low so as to not disturb your guest. “Little ones like that, treated unfairly because the Alternian law is wrong. Our Empresses may have done a few things to make life ‘easier’ for those lower on the spectrum, but there is still no justice for those who have been abused like this.”

“Yeah, I get it,” you replied quietly. You paused for a minute. “Didn’t...didn’t the same thing happen to you?”

“Yes,” she replied, looking away. Her eyes focused on something far off in the distance. “Except I did not have a moirail.”

_ You still don’t _ , you thought to yourself quietly.

Both of you were silent for a few minutes before she looked at you again. “Zanaro, I believe you’re capable of dealing with this on your own.”

You jolted in surprise. She hadn’t trusted you with your own mission yet. “You sure?”

“Call it a lesson of sorts,” she said flatly. “Perhaps then you’ll fully understand the struggles of our people. I’m going to take him to the Haven.”

The Haven was a name she’d developed for the mountain area where the ex-slaves from the Dominion’s plantation lived. She occasionally returned to bring them supplies and more trolls she’d picked up along the way, but this would be the first greenblood in their ranks. You’d never been invited on these trips yourself; merely stationed in a certain area where you were responsible for watching over the camp and taking the odd job here and there that would supply you with a few coins.

“Alright,” you replied, nodding a little. “I can do that.”

“Remember what I taught you,” she was suddenly straightening your small cloak--if it could even be called that--and smoothing out your shirt. “Bring me something back to prove that you did as I asked.”

“I can do that,” you were tempted to catch her hands, but she’d probably hit you for it. She smoothed a few hairs away from your face, and actually smiled a little.

“Come back alive,” she said, even softer than she had been. “A dead partner is of no use to me.”

“I promise, I’ll be as alive as you currently know me.”

“Good,” her face was hopeful, before hardening into her usual scowl. “Now bring justice.”

=> Be the scowling troll

It wasn’t as if it was a forced scowl. You just happened to have what they called “a resting bitch face”. You attempted to soften it for the sake of the young pupa you were traveling with. He was still thin, with wounds where he should not have wounds. You weren’t sure if it was fortunate that you knew how to deal with such things, or if it was just another tragic event to have happened in your lifetime. Whatever the case, you were determined to take care of the little one, no matter the cost.

You’d found yourself to be rather bitter compared to your mentor though. She’d had a way of soothing you when you were younger, and you seemed to agitate the young greenblood. You supposed it was because of your wild nature. Not many people were calmed by a half-feral troll.

Fortunately, there had been little to no interruptions on your part of attempting to get the young one far away. He did as he was told, and remained mostly quiet. But he became fearful when you mentioned the need to travel through the capital briefly. You could relate. You weren’t very fond of the capital either.

It was probably the most dangerous place to go in your place. The capital was where the Empresses resided. Their palace was at the center of it all, a massive thing made of pure white stone that positively  _ gleamed _ with perfection. You absolutely despised it. If you were to ever have anything that fancy, it would be black.

The greenblood stayed close to you, holding your hand as you walked carefully through the capital. He didn’t need a cloak, but occasionally, he’d dart under yours to hide. You didn’t mind. He stayed out of the way when you really needed to move. As you walked, you heard music coming from one of the nearby restaurants. It was a gorgeous sound; the sound of someone playing an instrument while singing at the same time. You decided that investigating the noise couldn’t harm you too much.

So you carefully crept in and watched from the shadows. Your gaze was fixed on a very tall, thin troll; one that looked to be a highblood. Her sign was definitely the appropriate purple. And her hair--something you’d never understood about purples was their habit of having crazy, chaotic hair--stood practically straight up, all over the place, as if she’d been electrocuted recently.

She wore a suit and what appeared to be reading glasses that were at the edge of her nose. Her fingers pressed down upon the buttons of the instrument that sat in front of her. Her voice accompanied the sweet sounds of the instrument, her head bobbing along to the music. You watched her silently, mesmerized by the sound. When she finally stopped singing, you blinked a few times. She appeared to be approaching you, though you weren’t quite sure why.

“Could you please move a bit,” she said to you, her voice still sounding as if she was singing every key. “I need a cup of water.”

You realized the pitcher of water was behind you. You wordlessly moved out of the way, ducking your head to conceal your eyes.

“You’re a good singer,” you found yourself saying.

The highblood blinked. “Well yeah, they don’t call me the Musician for nothing.”

“I thought highbloods as yourself did not typically sing outside their church,” you explained. “Their sermons are private, are they not?”

She seemed startled by your words. “Uhh, yeah. Yeah, they are. But um, this is kind of how I earn my coins outside of...subjuggalating?”

Your eyes narrowed, though she couldn’t see them. She was lying about something. You could tell by how your skin pricked in discomfort.

“Would you perhaps be interested in a duet?” you found yourself asking, cursing yourself internally. There were only a few songs you knew by heart, including a lowblood song that told the tale of a slave who attempted to save her friends and quadrants by drowning them all, including herself. You could remember the sound of chains being used to help keep the rhythm along with the strong tones of the lead singer.

You weren’t sure if any of the highbloods currently dining at this establishment would enjoy that song, but you knew you were capable of leading the song a bit, even if you couldn’t hit the high notes.

The Musician studied you. “You know how to sing?”

“Yes. Granted, all I’m very confident with is religious songs, but there is one that appeals to the lowbloods most of the time. That is if you’re interested.”

“What’s it called?” she asked.

“Bottom of the River,” you replied, watching her carefully.

A spark of recognition flickered in her eyes briefly, before she nodded. “I know that one. Do you want to lead, or would you prefer me to?”

“Either of us can, I’m not picky,” you waved your hand in dismissal at the decision of it all. “We will need at least a few more people for back up singers though.”

“You and your pupa should be fine, as long as I can find one more person to do bass. Stay here, I’ll be back.”

You waited patiently for her to return. This would be an interesting performance.

* * *

 

“That was absolutely splendid!” the Musician thundered. “You are a decent singer for a tealblood, my friend. Feel free to drop by anytime for another performance!”

You gritted your teeth a little. The highblood was beginning to annoy you. First, she preformed with you but insisted upon doing more songs with you as the backup. The other highbloods found your participation in the acts highly entertaining...and amusing. You were quite fed up with this purplebloods behavior. You were getting ready to punch her in the face.

“I must be on my way,” you managed to get out before firing a string of insults in her face. “There’s much to do.”

You quickly slipped out of the building with the greenblood accompanying you before the highblood could get another word out. It was beginning to grow light out, and you quietly cursed yourself for such foolishness. You were fond of highbloods. At least, the purple ones. Despite the things you’d seen them do, you admired their sense of artwork and their dedication to the messiahs. But they frequently annoyed you by forcing you to do more than you wanted to do.

Still, when it came down to highbloods you’d rather have around if you ever got around to finishing up your plans….

You led your companion along, encouraging him that you were halfway done. You were quite eager to see what new improvements had been done, and you were planning on bringing more supplies in so they would be one step closer to reaching the point of complete independence and self-sufficiency.

“Why do we have to travel so far?” the greenblood eventually asked once you’d managed to get out of the capital with the sun steadily climbing higher. He seemed to be immune to the dangerous rays, but that didn’t mean you were willing to stay out in the harsh light more than absolutely necessary.

“Because I wanted it to be far away from two other spheres of harm,” you replied eventually, searching among the trees for a suitable place to camp. You wondered how Zanaro was doing with his task, and if he was already done.

“Is it dangerous where we’re going?”

“No, little one. You’re with the most dangerous troll right now. I’m determined to keep you safe.” you tried out a reassuring smile. It seemed to work because he relaxed next to you.

You uncaptchalogged a few strips of dried meat, handing a good portion of them to the pupa. You also brought out one of the furs, setting it up like bedding for him. He gnawed on the food, practically on autopilot. You brought out your journal and another, larger pelt for yourself. The pupa watched you as he chewed on the tough meat, though you weren’t as bothered by his presence as you would have been, had you been much younger.

“Why do you write in that almost every night?” he asked.

“It’s a journal,” you explained. “And a bit of a record keeper. I store memories, thoughts, and plans in here. But only a few people can access certain things. That’s the magic of it.”

“Why bother keeping it?”

“For any descendent worthy of claiming it, for one,” you explained. “If I am to have any, they must be absolutely perfect. Which they shall be, having my blood.”

“You think that because you’re a mutant, you’re supposed to have perfect descendants?” the greenblood’s tone was curious, but his words were rather harsh and rude.

“Every troll has their flaws and gifts,” you found yourself saying. “I am a troll like any other, even if my ‘mutation’ makes me odd. I have my strengths and I have my weaknesses. Just as you do. The minute those stupid Empresses get that, the galaxy will be a lot better.”

The greenblood was silent for a few minutes. “What do you think of Empress Knhitter going into space to add to the Empire?”

You wrote for a few minutes before replying. “I believe she’d cull them all if it weren’t for her sister's word.”

The pupa opened his mouth to say something, but you put a hand on his mouth. “Enough questions and words for the night. Finish your food and sleep. We still have quite the journey ahead, even if we’re halfway done.”

* * *

 

You waved goodbye to the other lowbloods, exhausted from traveling and helping your people with their farming techniques. They’d been overjoyed to see you once more, and especially pleased to see what you’d brought with you. The greenblood was going to be taken care of by the entirety of the community, just like the others. You liked the care-system they had in place. It made your blood pusher warm up a bit.

You readied yourself for another long journey back, but heard a mild hissing noise as a massive snake slithered over to the clearing that resided near the cave entrance. You drew your scythes quickly, ready to subdue the angry lusus, but the troll on it’s back made you hesitate. He wore a familiar grin. Of course, when he jumped off, Zanaros messy hair was hard to miss.

“What is this?” you asked, gesturing to the giant snake lusus that had begun coiling around you two loosely, resting its head a ways away as it watched you in interest.

“Oh, meet Snakedad, also called King Hisser for his attitude. Hisser; Ferhal.” Zanaro began to pet the smooth, scaly side. “I found where those highbloods were keeping him, so I busted him out to help us. He’s probably gonna get a new charge at some point, but for now, he’s still mine.”

You tentatively extended your arm to pet him as well. He was surprisingly soft, even for a creature with scales. You sheath your weapons, sensing the lack of danger. Zanaro smiled.

“Did you do as I told you?” you asked, finally turning to him again.

Wordlessly, Zanaro uncaptchaloged a bloodied cloth, unwrapping it to reveal a head that smelled relatively fresh. The eyes were missing. You actually smiled, despite the gruesome sight.

“Well done,” you told him. “We can dispose of this properly by setting it up with the Arrogant, I think.” As if it were an afterthought, you moved a little closer to him, avoiding the severed head, leaned up and kissed him on the cheek.

Before he could ask or make some sort of joke, you stepped back and vaulted yourself onto the snake.

“Come on,” you called down to him, carefully balancing yourself to the place where a rather large pelt-saddle had been attached. “We have so much work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you love it when bae brings you nice gifts like the head of a government official? I sure do!
> 
> Also, the Musician has finally been introduced, admittedly, not the way I wanted to. Just wait, there will be a better introduction.
> 
> Also, the song that the Musician and the Untahmed sing is "Bottom Of The River" by Delta Rae. Feel free to look it up, it's pretty sweet.


	10. Repaid In Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flushed fluff, someone gets killed, a houseplant is stolen, a secret is revealed and Zanaro may or may not be slightly insane...

=> Be the overly affectionate blueblood

You snort a little at that. Bestowing the severed head of an enemy to your flushcrush had to be up there with affectionate things to have happened. But  _ overly _ affectionate? Come on! Though admittedly, you had been clinging on to her a lot more frequently. There was  _ definitely _ more touching than explicitly required. And so far, she hadn’t injured anything drastically important to you! That was progress, right?

King Hisser had taken both of you to the capital, so Ferhal could check out some things. She seemed to be studying, taking notes mentally with that face that she got when she was scheming. And later on, she’d furiously write things down in her journal. No matter how much you asked, she didn’t reveal much. But you had earned more of her trust and respect, so she did let you in on more plans.

Which both delighted and terrified you in the long run. What Ferhal was plotting was huge. Massive. If it failed, you had no doubt in your mind how severe the punishment would be. For now, you tried to keep positive, and always had a smile or a joke for her.

In fact, as the two of you took on your latest assignment, you’d been cracking jokes since early nightfall.

“What has two legs but no horns?” you asked, dodging yet another attack from an angry blueblood. He was a little shorter than you, but much more buff.

“Zanaro, we don’t have time for this foolishness!” she hissed, efficiently decapitating another blueblood.

You casually snapped the neck of your attacker. He crumpled to the floor. “A blueblood who fights too much.”

“That was possibly one of your worst yet,” Ferhal slammed into another one, poking a second guard in the eye with her scythe and then swinging it around so it sliced through his neck. She used her claws to pry the un-poked vision sphere out, and tossed it in the air as if she was getting ready to play a game.

“Did we get the guy yet?” You asked, crouching down so your horns knocked out the last two guards.

“Yes,” Ferhal caught the vision sphere for the last time, smiling a bit. “This would be his eye. I suppose you can quite literally say ‘An eye for an eye’ in this instance.”

“Are we ever going to move on to the next stage of the plan?” you stuck your axes back in the loops that held them on your pants. You liked to keep them out in the open, where you could easily grab them should trouble arise.

“Yes. We shall.” she stuck the eyeball in one of the pockets her cloak had, closing it around her. “How do you feel about the desert?”

“It’s annoying, hot, dry, and likely to be the death of us?” you stated, but toned it like a question.

“I asked for feelings, not facts, stupid.”

“In which case, I’d say let's go. King Hisser probably came from the desert originally. Why do we need to go there?”

“The Egotistic, who also goes by the title ‘the Arrogant’, but we’ll just call him the Arrogant Egotistic to save time, has a fortress out there. Keeps lowbloods with the intent on culling them. Kills pupas lusii, and has been known to use them for his art too. Once he’s eliminated, there’s only one more slaveholder to go.”

“Isn’t the Arrogant the one we sent that dudes head to?” you asked, half raising a hand for the question.

“Yes,” she smiled a bit. “I’m still very happy you gave me that head, Zanaro. It proved to me how... _ committed _ you are to this cause.”

She said the word ‘committed’ like it had several meanings and you could pick which one you wanted. Ferhal was an intelligent one. Dangerously smart. You’d seen her play mind games before. She never seemed to tire of them, endlessly fascinated with each outcome and what happened to her victims before they met their end. Ultimately, it was the same. They always met their demise.

But it now occurred to you that perhaps that this was a gesture of peace. True peace. And an offering, if he was smart enough to figure out how to take it without getting his blood pusher ripped out. It was still a mind game, but the prize wasn’t death. So what was it?

You decided not to take the bait fully. You were no expert when it came to quadrants, but you did know Ferhal. She’d chew you up and spit you out without batting an eyelid hair. So you chose the safe route, and smiled at her.

Her eyes seemed to flash with light, and she returned it, though it was much smaller. It was genuine though. Something you rarely got to see.

“Come,” she said after a while. She stepped over the bodies of the fallen as if they were no more than annoying rocks; graceful in her ways without trying much. “We still have much to do.”

Evidently enough though, the ‘much to do’ was breaking down camp and preparing to travel across the desert. She managed to find a public library, and spent weeks in town, studying up for their trip and painstakingly copying more maps of Alternia into her journal. She had several already sketched in there from your travels. Some of it was merely hunting trails in familiar terrain, but there was also shortcuts, and records of who was trustworthy and who wasn’t. You’d never seen much of Ferhals journal, but it was complex, and endlessly fascinating.

Ferhal decided that she wanted to visit the capital once more before delving into a world of little shade and water and a lot of open ground. There was news of a lowblood musician leaking through the figurative fruit vine that Ferhal wanted to check out before leaving the area completely. So it wasn’t much of a surprise to you when you both headed out to the shader part of the capital: lowblood territory.

They eyed you and Ferhal suspiciously. You were taller than the vast majority of them. Only a few lowbloods grew to such a height, and you were starting to wish you were a little less intimidating, when you came to the incredibly cliched door in a dark part of the alley. Ferhal snorted, then knocked on the door. Another cliche: an eye panel slid open.

“How are your organic pods growing?” Ferhal asked, seemingly innocent, but the eyes peeking through the panel widened in recognition. It closed again, and then the door opened, a stout bronzeblood letting you through dubiously.

Ferhal nodded her thanks, and threw back her cloak's hood, carefully walking down the stairs. You followed her example, delighted to discover that the stairs were actually an okay size for you. Evidently enough, whoever or whatever came down here was around your size. You weren’t sure if that was a comfort or a threat.

Upon reaching the end of the stairs, you found a block with several chairs set up around a few round tables, with a makeshift stage at the end of the room. There, preforming on the stage was a tall, lanky bronzeblood with horns that made a diamond together. She was singing along to whatever music she was playing on a funny little instrument--a guitar, you remembered briefly--and the glasses she wore at the edge of her sniff nub flashed in the light.

There was muffled laughter and chatter as she performed, and there was the distinct smell of fruity and far more potent smell; fermented juice. From what you’d come to understand about “adult” beverages, was the overall quality of them. Lowbloods tended to have the stronger, rougher drinks, whereas highbloods had far more refined drinks that weren’t all that strong. Which made little to no sense to you.

You’d mostly served Faygo in the highblood halls, but you weren’t very fond of it...even if you’d be loathed to admit it outloud. Faygo had an insane amount of sugar in it. Most lowbloods couldn’t handle it and typically got a hangover. You’d also experienced less than satisfactory results from drinking the holy beverage.

Ferhal kept her cloak on as she sat down. You exchanged glances, then focused on the lowblood musician. She had her sign in bronze, a symbol that faintly resembled her horns:

You casually moved your chair closer to Ferhal, tentatively wrapping an arm around her. She didn’t cause bodily harm to you, so you counted that good. The song eventually finished up, and Ferhal rose to her feet, marching with determination to the stage. A few people jumped, her moves were that irrupt. You sighed, following her.

The musician seemed surprised, as well as a little bit frightened. You noticed that she recognized your flush crush. A question bubbled in your mind, but you pushed it off. It could be asked later.

“I suspected there was something a little off about you,” Ferhal was saying quietly. “Now I understand.”

“Do you mind if we get off the stage to have this discussion? I’d rather not be culled in front of the crowd.” the lowblood replied.

Ferhal looked like she wanted to smile out of amusement, but she resisted. “There will be no culling from us,” she promised. “Just a chat.”

The bronzeblood didn’t seem reassured by this, but she followed you away from the stage and back to your table.

“You interest me, to put it simply,” Ferhal stated randomly, surprising you and the guest.

“W-what?” the bronzeblood stuttered.

“You. Interest. Me. That is what you were wondering, weren’t you? You were wondering why we wanted to talk to you. Very few lowbloods have the guts to do what you do, Musician.” she replied, lacing her fingers together.

“I don’t really do much,” the Musician replied. “I mean, other than hiding my blood caste.”

“Even that small amount of rebellion is more than some people manage in hundreds of sweeps,” Ferhal’s eyes flicked to your own, carrying a bit of a smile in them. “Of course, my mentor did far more than you.”

“How so?” the Musician tone was faintly insulted.

“She didn’t cull me,” Ferhal replied.

“Why would you be culled?”

“I’m trusting the lowblood system of loyalty to keep your mouth shut about this,” Ferhal’s gaze shifted to the Musician again. “After this, we will have to be trusted to keep each other's secrets. Both of us have done things that would cause an immediate culling.”

“How do I know you’re not lying?”

“She doesn’t lie,” you cut in. “She’s fair, like how the justice scales should be. A vision sphere for a vision sphere, scar for scar, secret for secret.”

“Yeah, and I’m going to trust a blueblood.” the Musician scoffed.

“You should, he’s far more passive than I ever have been,” Ferhal offered. She drew a claw and with a subtle flick of the wrist, she drew blood. Ferhal pressed on it, willing more blood to rush to the surface. You were highly conscious as to how dangerous this all was, but you let her do what she had to do; fingers brushing against your axes to reassure you they were there.

“Look well, Musician,” Ferhal presented her wrist to the bronzeblood for inspection. “What do you see?”

“Bright orange...you’re a mutant?”

“More of a red-orange, but yes,” Ferhal put her wrist to her mouth, sucking the blood in and swiping her tongue across it to effectively remove any trace of what ran under her skin. “I trust that we can keep each other's secrets now?”

“I suppose so,” the Musician straightened in her chair. “What can I do for you?”

“You see a lot of things don’t you?” Ferhal’s posture became more relaxed. “Hear a lot of things? You must have wonderful ears to play that beautifully.”

“I hear a lot of things, yes. See a lot. Highbloods are usually pretty happy to have a purpleblood playing for them. And us lowbloods like to take our entertainment anywhere we can get it.”

“Well, I have a job for you,” Ferhal uncapchalogged a rather thick pad of paper. “Write down anything you hear that doesn’t sound like vague gossip.”

“Gossip is useful,” you pointed out. “It’s how you find them most of the time.”

“Fair enough. Okay, scratch that last part. Write down whatever you hear. Anywhere, anytime. When my... _ partner _ and I return, we’ll come back to collect the information.”

“Why you aren’t going to be around?” the Musician seemed surprised.

“No, we have other matters to attend to. But unless something has changed in the last few sweeps I did business with a lowblood, you’ll get the job done. In return, I’ll do something for you. I don’t like leaving debts wherever I go, unlike many people. Name what you want that is equal in worth to what I’m asking for, and it will happen.”

You were starting to get interested in this. Ferhal rarely enlisted other people to help her with her job. You were wondering why she was putting so much stock in this lowblood musician. It was always interesting to see her do business like this. She really never did leave any debts unpaid.

“I don’t really want anything,” the Musician replied. “I guess it’s good enough for me if you keep my secret.”

You could tell Ferhal wasn’t satisfied, but she nodded. “Alright. We have a deal?” she held out her hand.

The Musician hesitated, then took it, shaking firmly. You noticed a ring on the finger closest to the last one on her hand. It was gold, with a fuschia gem embedded in it. You were sure that its presence hadn’t escaped Ferhal either.

“Deal.”

* * *

=> Be the clumsy mutant

It’s not as if anyone needed to rub it in. You weren’t used to navigating the harsh sands, and you were beginning to become irritated. Zanaro was attempting to call for his lusus, confident that the large snake would be able to navigate the harsh desert landscape better than you two ever could.

“He’s half cobra,” Zanaro had explained. “Should be fine.”

So far, you’d grown so unbearably hot that you had to take your cloak off, stubbed a toe, and had a loose bundle of dried grasses hit you in the face. You were  _ not _ enjoying this stay.

But you were more preoccupied by the thought of the Musician. You’d suspected something was off about her. And seeing the ring made you suspect. Rings were typically used among highbloods to show off their power and wealth, but there was another practical use to them. Helping others identify who was quadranted with whom. Stones with the same blood color of their partner; whether kismesis, matesprit, auspistice, or moirail would be fitted into a ring, and then worn on a certain finger to tell what they were to who.

The pointer finger was that of an auspisticize , middle was kismesis, the one after that was matesprit and the last finger was for moirails. Lowbloods did not typically get rings, unless they were handfasted. Or...had a quadrant mate who was rich enough to afford such things. Judging by the way the Musician acted, you were more than willing to bet she was hand fasted, and had a quadrant mate who was rich enough for a golden ring.

It could only be one of the Empresses. Only they were allowed to have fuchsia stones in their rings. But who?

You jumped a little when there was a loud shout from Zanaro. One of joy. It appeared the “cavalry” had arrived, as a miniature dust storm was kicked up as a giant snake slithered forth. Zanaro was plastered to the snake's massive head, although it looked like he was hugging it with his entire body. Which was adorable in it’s own right. You couldn’t help but smile.

Zanaro finally let go of the snake, prompting his lusus to give a sad hiss, and a lick to the face.

“Okay, me thinks King Hisser is up for a little journey. I haven’t seen him this happy in a long time.” Zanaro didn’t even seem to mind that his face had snake saliva all over it.

“Glad to hear that. Did the carpet saddle hold up?” you asked.

“Mhm, looks like it.” Zanaro finally wiped the spit off of his face. He gestured to the snakes back, being dramatic and silly, as usual. “Your carriage awaits, m’lady.”

You approached him, almost falling, but Zanaro picked you up easily and hopped aboard the snake.

“You want front seat or back?” he asked.

“Depends on who can drive. Which, as I recall, was you.”

“Well, I’m perfectly content to use my long arms to reach around you and steer,” To emphasize his point, Zanaro picked up the reins and gave a little flick, squeezing his legs against the sides of King Hisser. Who promptly began slithering in the direction Zanaro moved the reins.

“Pray tell, what do you hope to accomplish?” you asked quietly, keeping your body as far away from him as you could manage.

“Define what you mean by that,” Zanaro replied, glancing down at you for the briefest of moments before his gaze returned to where he was guiding King Hisser.

“This,” you gestured to yourself and Zanaro. “Your behavior towards me. What are you trying to do?”

“Well, I’m beginning to think you already get it, but for all I know, you don’t.”

“Some days I’m more certain than others. But I’d appreciate it if you’d clarify for me what it going on.”

“Y’know, for a troll who’s so smart and observant, you really aren’t-”

“Do not play coy with me, Hexxus,” you snapped. “Give me the truth, and give it to me now before I leave you for the drones.”

You didn’t fully mean that last bit, but it was meant to be an added touch to get him to tell you.

“Sweet Jegus, girl, alright, alright. Hold onto your cloak,”

You waited a few minutes, and just before you opened your mouth, he spoke.

“I like you, alright? More as a...flush crush like, y’know?” Zanaro finally blurted out. “I’ve been trying to flirt red with you sometimes, but then you act all black around me  And other times you’re flushed too. I can’t tell what signals you’re sending, but mine have been pretty straightforward.”

You were quiet for awhile, debating your next move. The Alphabet had gone over quadrants with you of course, but not as in depth has you had wanted it to be. You supposed to Zanaro, he’d done everything right and you’d been confusing him. You weren’t very confident as far as friendships came...let alone quadrants. But you were willing to try for him.

The boy had given you a severed head as a courting gift after all.

“I suppose...if you wanted to...we could...try...I guess,” You said softly, trailing off. “I warn you now that I’m not always the...the best at pitying and showing how much I care...but I’ll try for you.”

“I already know how you are, you goof,” Zanaro teased, looking down at you. “Believe me, if you didn’t chase me off with all the bullshit we do, you’re not gonna chase me off now.”

“Oh, hush,” you pretended to feel offended, but really, you were unexplainably giddy. “Just drive the snake and don’t make us fall off a gogdamn cliff!”

“You wish is my command, my queen.”

* * *

 

“This is it?” Zanaro whispered as you crouched behind the walls of the fortress. The stones were different colors, and vaguely sticky. Unfortunately, you had a feeling you knew what it had been painted with.

“Yes,” you replied, your voice just as low. “The Egotistic captures a manner of trolls; young and old, and uses them whenever he runs out of paint. He also sends them off to be used by other subjugglators for a range of things.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“Is King Hisser hungry at all?”

“Probably. He’s never full, even when he’s shedding.” Zanaro appeared to be testing how sharp his axes were. “I guess he could eat a few dozen highbloods right now.”

“Good. We’ll use him if stealth fails.”

“We knocking out the entire staff?”

“Probably. He won’t be like the Dominion. The Egotistic is much younger. And much more capable of fighting. We’ll free the prisoners after. I doubt I’ll have much of an emotional pull on them. People on the Dominion’s land at least knew me. For these trolls, I will require a head. Oh, and a vat of blood. Mostly for alchemy purposes.”

“Eh, I want a bucket of blood,”

Your face turned red-orange, and you fanned your face. “Zanaro, word choice please!”

Zanaro’s ears flattened in embarrassment and his face turned a little blue. “I meant a large container of blood for artistic purposes, if we ever settle down someplace. I plan on painting a most righteous mural with the blood of our enemies.”

You attempted to contain a laugh. It was difficult, but you managed. “I suppose if the artwork is tasteful, I may allow it.”

“Of course it’d be tasteful, I wouldn’t dare put something that you wouldn’t approve of.”

You rolled your eyes. “Back to the plan at hand, please.”

“Right. So stealth mission, take ‘em out and if that fails, use King Hisser to cause a little mayhem?”

“Yes. I’d rather not bring King Hisser into this, because then it will get harder to use him as a more mundane thing.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty hard to cover up giant snake tracks,” Zanaro commented. “Divide and conquer?”

“I guess. Meet back up when we get to him though.”

“You got it, babe,” Zanaro grinned.

You leaned up and gave him a quick kiss. Not one on the cheek like you had before. His grin grew wider when you did.

“Don’t die,” You hissed.

Within seconds, the two of you had killed half of the guards, including those at the entrance to the lowblood prison, stolen a lamp--hey, it was a pretty snazzy lamp--eaten a few snacks, and used a hive plant to stab someone in the rear. Zanaro was laughing at that one.

“Be quiet, they’ll hear you!” you hissed, swatting him.

One of Zanaro’s eyes were normal, but the other had decreased in size; as if he were afraid. It gave him a particularly wild look about him. You were aware of the slight sharpness to your own pupils. You wondered what he thought of you.

“If they haven’t already heard us, I’m surprised,” Zanaro replied, lowering his voice. “But alright babe, I got you.”

You rolled your eyes. You were anxious to get the job done with so you could get out of the desert at long last. It was far too dry, with little to no cover and no greenery but the occasional desert plant.

“Can we please get on to the actual goal?”

“Alright, let’s roll. Cull anyone who gets in our way?”

“Yes.”

You made your way to the center of the hive, which contained the Egotistic. He was massive, though you couldn’t say you were that impressed. You’d grown accustomed to being around Zanaro, who was dwarfed compared to this monstrosity, but Zanaro moved like a highblood. He was lanky--moving like one of those black big cat sometimes, but overall casual about whatever he did.

“Now what’s this?” he asked. You gritted your teeth. It was getting tiring to hear the same words repeated by the same high-and-mighty morons.

“I believe this is a bit of a game,” Zanaro replied. You knew he wouldn’t be able to resist breaking a rule you’d set in place. “One where there’s a predetermined winner.”

“Well, that winner’s me, ain’t it little motherfucker?” the highblood smirked. “If this is an assassination attempt, y’all are piss poor assassins. How much they payin’ you? Bet you I could double for the amount I’ll get on your heads.”

“Psh, you ain’t gonna get anything for her,” Zanaro nodded towards you. “But for me?” he shrugged. “Maybe a little.”

“Why? What kind of cullable offenses have you done?”

Zanaro grinned a wicked grin as two very long and sharp fangs finally came forth. You realized that you’d never seen the two fangs from his youth. His teeth were plenty sharp on their own; each reminding you of a small dagger blade, but these reminded you of bigger, thicker fangs similar to the ones King Hisser had.

“I was a servant to one of your highblood lords or whatever you want to call him,” Zanaro said, still grinning. “I betrayed them and assisted a mutant--this mutant. To make matters even more interesting, I continued to help this mutant, even going as far as pitying her, and now? Now I’m helping her get her justice. And my own. Remember me? I’m that little blueblood grub that my  _ ancestor _ laid before your massively ugly feet. He used  _ me _ to pay off a debt owed to you, right?”

Recognition dawned on the highbloods long face.

“Well,” Zanaro giggled a bit. It was the sound of pure insanity if you’d ever heard one. “I guess I’m going to repay my own debt.”

“Claiming your birthright finally?” the highblood sneered. He looked at you, his eyes beginning to turn red. “Don’t trust a Hexxus. There’s a reason why their descendents take on the title of the Wildcard. You never know what they’ll do next.”

Your gaze was full of contempt as you summoned some spit from the back of your throat and shot it out at the Egotistic.

“The Wildcard is my title, yes,” Zanaro agreed, seemingly holding off laughter. “But she’s the Untahmed. And well...what goes better with someone wild than someone unpredictable?”

“Like you could even beat me, you unrighteous motherfucker,”

You finally stepped forward, throwing your cloak back to let your eyes glow. The Egotistic looked terrified, though it wasn’t normal terror.

“I am a messiah worshipper myself,” you announced. “As is he. We are not the unfaithful ones, you are.”

“You can’t hide forever,” Zanaro agreed.

You shared a look with each other before delivering justice.

* * *

 

“That was strange,” Zanaro said as you both climbed on top of King Hisser again. The giant snake lusus was large enough to carry most of the prisoners there. The others decided to leave, and you were completely okay with that. They’d been in a similar line of work as you had--mercenaries and assassins though.

You’d stashed your blood supplies, having drained him completely of blood. One of the wanderers; a rainbow drinker cavern jadeblood, had assisted you in disposing of the rest of the blood. You’d been startled to see her, but bid her a pleasant goodbye. She was planning to lie low for awhile.

“His strange babbling? I agree,” you replied.

“No, I mean what he was babbling about,” Zanaro continued, wrapping his arms around you while he steered. “I could understand most of that, since y’know, I speak clown.”

“I’m not sure if that’s something you wish to brag about,” you smiled.

“Well, I’m bragging, darling, get used to it,” Zanaro gently smacked you on the arm. He was very gentle with anything regarding play-violence. “Anyways, he was talking about the ‘Harbinger of Death’, the ‘End of the Empresses glorious reign will soon be upon us’ and something about ‘definitely should have culled that one’. Like I said, it was really weird.”

You hummed a little, leaning back on Zanaro, moving your head into a more comfortable position buried into Zanaro’s chest.

“Best not dwell on it now,” you said after a while. “We have a lot more sweeps than others to worry about stuff. Remember that.”

“Aw heck yeah! I keep forgetting, you’re not exactly a lowblood, so you live a lot longer!”

“In the hundreds at least. I plan on living quite a long time.”

“It’s always the spiteful ones that last the longest.”

You reached up and lazily hit him behind the head. “Shut up, you jerk. We were having a moment.”

“We can have many more if you want,” Zanaro grinned.

“You’re a sticky puddle of sweetness that used to be a troll and I can’t tell if I should be repulsed or pity the fact that you can be rendered that way so quickly.”

“Maybe both?”

“I’ll debate on it while we ride.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been fighting with this shitty thing for about an hour now, and I am so fucking done, you have no idea. I just had to rewrite all of this, kill me. Anyways, school let out for me, so I should be able to do more stuff. Hope you all enjoyed the little cameos and stuff. Y'all might have noticed that it now says 25 as the total chapters. That's more of a goal, so hopefully, I reach that goal.
> 
> Side note: I have no idea why, but my images won't pop up for me, so let me know if it's just my account being wonky or if it's actually something I should look into.


	11. Crafting A New Order Of Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip out of the desert, Ferhal starts sorting out some shit underground, Ferhal and Zanaro cuddle for awhile and the Addvisor is shook by how unmodest his superiors are with nudity

=> Be the tired mutant

You will not deny that you are tired. If the way you’re leaning against Zanaro is any indication, then anyone with eyes would be able to tell that you are indeed, tired. It’s been a few weeks since your last mission, and you’d been forced to stay in the desert to avoid the drones. They were making a reproduction route, and just as it had always been before; you avoided civilization like the plague. Of course, for Zanaro this was new. He wasn’t used to avoiding drones with this sort of purpose. You supposed he’d passed over a pail once before.

King Hisser’s back wasn’t the most comfortable place in the world, but Zanaro made up for it by being a  _ very _ comfortable soft object. He had one arm wrapped around you, his other hand on the reins to ensure King Hisser wouldn’t get testy and drive them off a cliff. You were just wandering, no real destination in mind. And though you hated it, it was nice in a way. You and Zanaro got to get to know each other. Though there wasn’t much more to learn. Simple behaviors, and gestures that conveyed more meaning than previously thought, that was all.

You couldn’t imagine anyone feeling content to do absolutely nothing their entire lives, but Zanaro seemed to be a close example. The other refugees respectfully left you alone for the most part, unless it came to calling you attention to gaining food and water. You were planning on moving back to the forests to get them to the Haven...which had shifted its name to the Court of Miracles. Somehow. It hadn’t been your work, and you suspected Zanaro but he denied it every time you accused him.

You’d heard of the subjugglator myth concerning a place called the Court of Miracles. Supposedly, a highblood went insane and created a place where criminals could seek sanctuary, but it was a miracle if they made it out alive. You supposed this would make a better story. This Court of Miracles could be a sanctuary for those in need of a miracle.

“What are you thinking about?” Zanaro asked you as he weaved his fingers in your hair.

“Getting out of this stupid desert mostly,” you replied. “Plus the Court of Miracles.”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “Y’know, I thought I was the one who liked breaking the rules, but I think you’re the one who coaxed me into it.”

“More like I awoke your sense of purpose regarding rules. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“You’re a bit presumptuous, don’t you think?”

“More like I know when I’m right. Which is always.”

Zanaro chuckled a bit, shaking his head.

You were silent a few minutes before speaking again.

“How long will it take us to get back to the Court of Miracles without traveling into, or past the Capital or any other towns? I’d like to avoid civilization as long as possible since we don’t exactly look innocent of any ‘crimes’.”

“Probably another week, if you check one of your maps. Why?”

“I want to check up on our spies information. It will be invaluable if my calculations are accurate.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Last time I checked, our next major target is a blueblood with a penchant for high art. Since the Musician happens to be classified as ‘high art’, chances are this particular person will want to hear her as often as possible. To show off. The sort of thing the higher ups do.”

You were careful to exclude Zanaro from this. As far as you were concerned of, he was the only blueblood worth trusting in this fucked up world.

“So what’s this fella’s name?”

“The Cunningg,” you wrinkled your sniff nub at the name. “Clearly, if he’s as intelligent as they say he is, he wasn’t very good with his title.”

Zanaro laughed. “Nah, nothing particularly smart like ours, huh?”

You smiled a little and tilted your head back to look up at him. He was looked down at you, dark blue eyes bright. He pecked your sniff nub, still smiling.

“So will we be expected to train in more stealth?”

“Yes,” you decided. “I want to leave a lasting impression on the final one. We need to scout out the area before we learn more, but I think I have decent plans regarding how we’ll leave that impression.”

“Oh?” Zanaro smiled coyly. “Do I get in on this or no?”

“Perhaps,” you yawned, carefully stretching; attempting to avoid hitting your matesprit. “If I need your opinion on something, you  _ will _ hear about it. Which the chances of that happening are high, now that I know what you’re capable of.”

“Looking forward to it, doll,” he grinned widely, opening his mouth briefly to allow the massive snake-like fangs to slid out. With those revealed, it was no wonder he’d gotten that severed head in the first place.

* * *

 The Court of Miracles was a bustling place. Full of freed lowblood slaves and other people you’d communed ever since founding it a few sweeps ago, it was starting to shape up to an underground world, free of persecution from what kind of blood you had. As far as you were concerned, anyone was welcome if they obeyed your rules. And your rules were fairly simple.

They’d finally set up a farming and hunting system, capturing nearby animals and breeding them to create farms. Those with psionics used their powers to bulldoze new areas; opening new cave systems, and creating more hives for the people. But the main city area--the capital, as you’d come to think of it--resided in a massive cave system, where hives could be built out of any material, and not just carved into the stone.

You’d had your own hive built down here. It wasn’t as if you’d ordered it, but the citizens thoughtfully built you a castle-like structure, a place they frequented when you were there. They came to you to solve problems, offered you things they’d made, or sometimes just came to talk.

You were startled by this at first, but as one of the warmbloods explained to you, you were regarded as a queen. So you decided to start acting like one. You began to devise simple rules, not quite laws, but simple  _ rules _ that people could follow. You appointed Zanaro as a lord under you. He was the second-highest ranking official. The final, and foremost person in this government, was the Addviser.

Both his name and his position suggested what he did. You also assembled a Council to offer more opinions, with at least two members of each blood caste to offer the opinions of the people. The highest you went on the hemospectrum was olive. People were content with how you ruled, and you were pleased to discover that many of them had suggestions of their own to create a better Court of Miracles.

“What I’m saying here, your queenship,” said a particularly vocal oliveblood to you. “Is that we need more than one entrance and exit. We need to be able to escape, should there ever be a likelihood of the place being discovered. We also need more places for the Sweepers to go out and collect more helpless people. It’s a matter of efficiency, your grace.”

Resting on what you liked to refer to as you throne, you smiled a bit. “This is, indeed, a marvelous idea. Do you have any who would like to offer their talents to this particular project?”

“A few, your highness,” the oliveblood clasped his hands together. “But they refuse to do anything until they get orders from you.”

You rubbed your chin with your forefinger and thumb. “Well, that will be no trouble at all. What is your name, olive?”

“Keekan, your grace,” he replied. “Head of the Sweepers, as appointed by Lord Hexxus.”

“Lord Hexxus chose well,” you said, almost as an afterthought. “Well Keekan, I will certainly accompany you after five more people have explained to me the numerous other problems our people possess. If you would be so kind as to follow Lord Hexxus into my study, I would be delighted to fix this issue.”

“Thank you, Queen Untahmed, thank you!” he cried and followed the ever-looming Zanaro out of the room. With a single flick of the finger, you encouraged another person to come into the room.

You would be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy being treated like this. As far as you were concerned, this should be how things were done. Someone should be able to claim a position such as this through the ‘hard’ won loyalty and dedication. Someone should have to  _ work _ for this. And you’d earned your title twice over now, including the new ‘Queen’ before it.

Once you were done, you found Zanaro waiting in the hallway before the study.

“Rough day?” he asked.

“Not quite,” you replied. “I was particularly pleased to discover you appointed  _ that _ one as head of the Sweepers. He is hardworking and honest. And particularly thoughtful when it comes to the future.”

Zanaro grinned. “He did so well during our desert trials, that I supposed he would do excellently for that role. How exactly was ‘Sweepers’ coined by the way?”

“I’m rather unsure of that myself,” you admitted. “Only that a small group of trolls approached me to inform me that they had founded a group they called the Sweepers, and their primary task was to go out and retrieve more people who needed the Court of Miracles.”

“Smart idea, whoever came up with it,” Zanaro replied. “Do they do anything else?”

“Yes. They make supply runs. Anything to do with the Surface, they orchestrate it. I’m planning on training a few warriors in this bunch to ensure we will be protected if we do ever get attacked.”

“One thing at a time,” Zanaro said, his voice full of laughter.

You stuck your tongue out at him and opened the study doors. Keekan jumped a little, and a book flew out of his hands. He started babbling out apologies, but you waved him off.

“It’s quite alright, Sweeper Keekan. Books are meant to be read. That is their sole purpose in life, and if I can’t enjoy them all, at least someone is,” your words seemed to calm him a bit, but he still apologized profusely. He only stopped when you ordered him to lead you to the Sweepers Den.

The Sweepers Den proved to be a small cave with a few bunk recuperacoons, a large, wooden table in the middle of the room with maps and charts and other random pieces of paper scattered about; a nutritionblock area that was surprisingly clean, and backpacks hung on the walls with cloaks and jackets hanging next to them, numbers printed on the wall above each bag. If you were to closer examine it, you suspected numbers were printed on the bags and cloaks, corresponding with the number above.

A few people seemed to be sitting around. Two people were playing chess at a small table in the back. They looked up when you entered. The cave was tall enough that you and Zanaro could stand upright without being knocked over.

“Good evening to you all,” you said. “Sweeper Keekan was just telling me that you wish to make other tunnels so you can do your job better?”

There were a few nods and verbal confirmations.

“One of you, please go out and get the group of people you asked to help with this project.”

Wordlessly, five Sweepers left the room. Zanaro moved to let them through the doorway. There was a rather awkward silence that you decided to fill to answer some of your questions.

“Have you gone on any missions?” you asked Keekan.

“Yes, actually. We went on several trips to retrieve the supplies you see now. It wasn’t easy, and maybe not fair, but we did have to do what we had to achieve all of this, your grace,” Keekan replied. “Along the way, we found more people who needed help. Before that, we were just doing supply runs, y’know? This was before I came here of course. They were a bit disorganized, without having proper headquarters.”

“How did you get sopor slime and recuperacoons?”

“One of the fellas here has a contact in the Caverns,” Keekans voice dropped down. “Little not known fact about jadebloods? They’re apparently the ones responsible for the production of sopor slime. All we had to do was get some old, broken recuperacoon, fix them up, and use that jadeblood contact. She was more than happy to help.”

“Was she enclosed with our whereabouts? Or anything enclosed like that?”

“No, of course not. She was merely told that a new town was in the process of being built, nothing more,” Keekan assured you. “I doubt anyone would want to risk the freedom they’ve found here. It’d be foolish to. We had so little in the past, and we have so much here. It gives me vertigo whenever I think about how much freedom I have here.”

You smiled a bit. “Glad I could offer sanctuary.”

“We’re all glad for it, your grace. Every single one of us.”

At that moment, the five Sweepers returned with a reasonable group of warmbloods. Each warmblood looked strong, and healthy, though they still bore scars of old lashes. They stood tall; proud. And they had every right to do so.

Keekan approached the group, greeting them with warm smiles, and encouraging words. Then he stood in front of the group, spreading his arms out.

“This would be the group I was talking about, your grace. They’re nervous that you’re here, after hearing what you’re capable of and such, but they will still follow you.”

You exchanged a glance with Zanaro. Keeping him around you probably didn’t help matters. If anyone were to go off of the hemospectrum, he would be the highest one in attendance.

“I am glad to see so many of you willing to assist in the improvements we shall make to the Court of Miracles. I only wish to inform you that you have my permission and  _ orders _ to tunnel more. Create more entrances to the Surface, but do run the courses by me first. I want them to be nearly undetectable, and almost impossible to find unless you truly wish to find the Court of Miracles. You shall listen to Head Sweeper Keekan or anyone else with power around here. Have I made myself clear?” your voice seemed overly loud, but you chalked it up to your important words.

Everyone nodded or made affirmation noises. You mentally checked off another thing on your list, and exited the room, trusting them to get to work. Zanaro trailed after you.

“What’s your angle?” he asked in a low voice.

“What angle?” you replied in an equally hushed tone.

“Why are we spending so much time down here, instead of doing what we both know you’d rather be doing?”

“Why bother creating a kingdom for yourself if you can’t enjoy your hard work?” you answered, entering your hive. Any and all business was closed for the rest of the night, and you were looking forward to indulging in your own reading. “Besides, there’s no harm in any of this.”

“Except for the fact that you’ve broken so many laws, that I think it’s a crime to even be alive right now.”

“You hate laws and rules,”

“Do as I say and not as I do, woman. You know what I mean.”

“Care to clarify further?”

“Fuck you. I’m not being brought into your black shit again. The last time that happened, I almost broke the-”

“Shh, someone’s around here,” you put your hand on Zanaro’s chest without thinking, and reached around your body, preparing to summon a scythe.

A few minutes later, a harassed-looking Addviser came around the corner. His hair was frazzled, like it always was, except early in the night when he kept it in meticulous order. But he was usually disrupted by something, or something upset him, and he began to tug on his hair. Then it ended up as you were seeing now.

“Apologies you majesty, but I wished to bring something to your attention,” he said, folding his arms behind him. “There are Cropcullers who refuse to do their job, as well as a few Meatheads. They pull a few weeds, or feed a few cluckbeasts, and then lazy around all day. We must put a stop to this!”

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your sniff nub between two fingers. “I’ll address it right now, but I expect Lord Hexxus and me to be left  _ alone _ after. There is business we must attend to.”

“Of course, your highness. I shall address that immediately. Shall we walk?”

You enjoyed being addressed with respect. But sometimes, you wished you could shed some of your duties.

* * *

= > Be the amused blueblood

It was easy to be amused. Hell, you couldn’t really remember a time you weren’t amused. Subjugglator way of life dictated it, but you’d had to act like it didn’t matter to you before. But now, in the privacy of your matesprits respiteblock, you were free to do as you pleased. And right now, what you pleased to do was laugh at your matesprits complaints.

You were both curled up on her slimeless recuperacoon, a design the other trolls had provided when they’d built her the hive. It was essentially a large soft cushion with blankets and other soft things on it that she could wrap herself in and make herself feel safe. Considering the fact that she’d lived in a makeshift pile for her pupahood, you supposed this was a bit of an upgrade.

Though you weren’t allergic to sopor like she was, you liked to share her slimeless recuperacoon. It was soft, comfortable. And you liked being with her, close and intimate like this. The blankets wrapped around you to provide warmth, although the mutant you were currently cuddling gave off her own amount of heat. You weren’t sure why she gave off more heat than a burgundy, but you weren’t complaining. Even a coldblood like yourself got a little-chilled down here.

She was still ranting, and you had your arms around her, which made you pretty happy. You let her have space, but you knew that once she’d let it all out, she was probably going to snuggle her face into your chest and you could rest your head on top of hers. She was probably going to swing that leg around you again too.

Messiahs, help you.

You weren’t even quite sure if this qualified as pale. It  _ felt _ a little pale. But you weren’t one hundred percent sure with things like quadrants. Your think pan tended to get things a little confused over how things were  _ supposed _ to be, so you supposed you should just roll with it. You liked listening to her rant. She was always so honest with you, which that in itself was a small miracle. Though Ferhal was objectively against lying, that didn’t mean she wasn’t guilty of withholding information or doing what she liked to call “bending the truth”. You supposed she was a bit of a hypocrite for that, but her main strategy was to simply keep her trap shut. No harm in doing that most of the time.

Besides, most of the people she lied to had been “sinners” in her book. Impure souls who needed to be served justice. No harm in being that way to them. At least, that’s what she said.

You knew she intended on going back to the Capital at some point. She was itching to buy more books--this time, on politics--and she wanted to check up on your spy. So far, the Musician was the only outsider to have a vague knowledge of the Untahmed. And you knew Ferhal wanted to keep it that way.

“Where’s your mind tonight?” Ferhal asked softly. She’d begun tracing your face with the hand not under her, which meant she was using the one that had been around you. But you couldn’t complain. The action was soothing.

“Off going around in circles, I suppose,” you replied, your voice a little more gruff than normal. It bore the signs of sleepiness. Though the caves had no way to tell when it was dark out, Ferhal kept timetellers around her hive. She liked knowing what time it was. You could get that. With a troll as busy as she was, every second counted.

“Sorry if I’m boring you. I just have a lot on my mind. I don’t mean to be flashing pale at you, but you’re the only one who’s close to being my equal,”

You closed your eyes halfway at the statement. She wasn’t one to dish out words like that. Being close to being equal to her might have made another blueblood angry or frown with disapproval, but you were buzzing at her words.

“You’re smiling, so I assume I said something right for once,” Ferhal ran her fingers over your lips a little before moving to your chin.

You moved your hand from its position on her hip to grab her wandering hand and hold it back up to your lips, pressing a kiss on her fingers while looking into her flaming red-orange eyes.

“Almost everything you say is right, dearest one. And if you ever got any doubt about that, let me wash it all away.”

She smiled shyly, dropping her gaze for once.

It made you quite proud to be able to do things that other people couldn’t. She could be sweeter than you’d ever make her out to be, and she just kept surprising you. It made you quite content to spend the rest of your sweeps with her.

_ Even though you’re likely to outlive her? _ A nagging voice in the back of your think pan asked. You tried to ignore it.

“We should probably sleep,” she yawned. You dropped her hand, returning your own to its previous position. She wrapped her arm around you again and-- _ yes! _ \--moved closer to bury her face in your chest. “G’morning. Pleasant dreams to you.”

“Same to you,” you rested your head on her head, unconsciously tightening your hold on her for a few minutes before you relaxed.

Your dreams were...strange. You saw a younger version of yourself, wearing strange clothes. You appeared to be arguing with someone.

_ “I just think that we should be more prepared, alright? Ferhal is the one who brought me here. I didn’t  _ ask _ to be brought here. If you could get that through your thick skull, I’d appreciate it, Sandra.” _

Another troll stepped into the picture. She wore all pink and had short, choppy hair. The ends were dyed purple. She had a snobbish face, and her horns curled opposite sides of each other after having risen out of her head in a straight line. She reminded you of someone...but who?

_ “I don’t care if  _ she’s _ the one who brought you here. I don’t even care if the gogdamn  _ Empresses _ brought you here. You don’t belong here. Nothing will ever change that. And you seeking out ways to make yourself ‘useful’ isn’t going to make us more prepared in the slightest.” _

Suddenly, another face joined the room. A younger Ferhal. But she had short, short hair. And a much more angry face. She wore strange clothes too.

_ “Why are you bothering my partner, Sandra?” _ the strange Ferhal demanded. She had a rather thick accent. She rolled her r’s and pronounced vowels strangely.

_ “‘Partner’ is a cute name for something that’s not very cute,” _ Sandra sneered.  _ “When are you going to kill him like the others?” _

_ “Don’t tell me you haven’t killed, Sandra. That would be a lie worth killing you for,” _ Ferhal growled.

_ “At least I didn’t murder senselessly!” _

_ “You’ve gotten us mixed up again. I killed with a purpose. You killed for no reason.” _

_ “You killed people who got in your way.” _

_ “I killed people who were a danger to our world.” _

_ “Likely story.” _

_ “The point of the matter is: what are you doing with my gogdamn kismesis?” _

_ “Nothing. Just putting him in his place.” _

Ferhal took a threatening step forward. You were sure that if she was a seadweller, her fins would be fanning out in a classic threat display.

_ “‘His place’ is higher than yours, tyrian-scum!” _

_ “Want to fight on it?” _

Both parties drew their weapons; knitting needles and scythes, but before anything could happen, a fourth party arrived. She was significantly shorter, and her horns were similar to Sandra's except they curved inwards, but you could tell they were related based on similar facial structure.

_ “What’s the meaning of this?” _

_ “Go away, Nahlah. We’re settling this once and for all.” _

_ “We’re not settling anything today, Sandra. That’s quite enough!” _

Sandra grumbled but reluctantly put her knitting needles away. Ferhal however, did not back down. And her eyes were close to doing that weird pin-prick thing.

_ “Ferhal, that’s enough,” _ this Nahlah said soothingly.

Ferhal glanced her way growled a little, and loosened up a bit.  _ “This is not over, Gohomes. Stay away from my kismesis-partner, or I’ll turn your horns into a new hive decoration.” _

_ “Like you could even rip them off,”  _ Sandra said dismissively, but Nahlah watched Ferhal and the younger Zanaro disappear. She had a bit of apprehension on her face.

_ “Sister, I wish you wouldn’t taunt her like that. It could spell out disaster for us.” _ Nahlah said, biting her lip with sharp, pointed shark-like teeth.

_ “I don’t know what you even worry. What’s a mutant supposed to do against a couple of fushiabloods like us?” _

Nahlah shot Sandra a bit of a smile, but still had a worried look on her face.

You woke up before you could see what was about to happen next...and it was a rather rude one. The Addviser burst through the doors, shouting about something as usual; his hair already a mess, and yanked off the covers only to shriek, frantically recovering you with the blankets, apologizing and then started shouting again.

You were always a passive one, but right now? You felt like punching him.

“Your majesty, wake up! I insist that you do! It’s of utmost importance that you see to this!”

Your lovely little matesprit already had a glare going on at being woken up in such a way. She sat up, not even bothering to keep the covers over her as she did so, and crossed her arms.

“If you do not cease this senseless yapping Addvisor, I will snap your neck and add you to my culled list,” she snapped.

He immediately stopped talking, and seemed a bit pale, if you were, to be honest.

“Whatever needs attention, can be dealt with by Lord Hexxus. I plan on catching up on some much-needed sleep and I shall  _ not _ be disrupted again unless it is by Lord Hexxus or so important that it risks everyone's lives immediately. Have I made myself clear?”

The Addvisor nodded. He looked to you for guidance. You were looking at Ferhal, who scooted back down to lay down again, pulling the blankets back up and rubbing her head into one of the soft head cushions to get settled in.

You leaned down and pecked her forehead. She smiled without opening her eyes. You hopped out of the slimeless recuperacoon, causing the Addvisor to make a very interesting squeaking noise and put your fists on your hips.

“Let me find my motherfucking pants, and I will definitely help you with whatever the fuck made you get your shout on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, I finally finished it. I went into a bit of a writer's block for awhile on this chapter, but once I got out of that, it was a breeze. I've been reading quite a bit of the Blood-Stained Knight series, which I definitely recommend, 10/10, would read again, so check that out if you want to. I can give you the link if you can't find it. It gave me a lot of ideas, and kind of helped me get back on track.
> 
> By the way, a few of these things that probably popped up, like Sweepers, Cropcullers, and Meatheads? Those are just words to explain their profession. Sweepers are their own class, and kind of hard to explain, but they essentially go on the Surface to gather people who need the Court of Miracles (as Ferhal explained), but they also get supplies. Cropcullers are farmers. They take care of the plants that feed the animals and also feed a few of the trolls. Meatheads are the people who take care of the meat. Since my headcannon is that trolls are mainly carnivorous, Meatheads are quite essential to this way of life.
> 
> By the way, little side note: Game On is scheduled to be released on August 8th of this year!! At least, that's what we're shooting for. My friend Sushi (just a nickname) and I made a Tumblr blog, but it's got a password on it since one of my friends objected to her trollsona being shown. If that changes, I might post it here. Her trollsona's pretty cool tbh, and that trollsona has an ancestor in here: the wonderful, fabulous Musician!
> 
> Anyways, there should be a few more introductions to ancestors and stuff like that, since three more people have finally gotten their shit together in that department. Still one more person who needs to get his shit together, but I shall not give up!
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed reading this chapter. I'm actually having a lot of fun coming out with these things, and I'd appreciate any and all feedback if you've got it! :)


	12. Travel Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Untahmed sucks major ass at communicating non-sinisterly, but she makes a new friend. Danger is lurking around every corner, Zan has two people who now hate him (one consistently, with the other on and off), and finally! someone can cook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> props to anyone who gets the very small Insane Clown Posse reference with pigs btw

=>Be the puzzled bronzeblood

_ “Write down whatever you hear. Anywhere, anytime. When my... partner and I return, we’ll come back to collect the information.” _

That had been the mutants command. You weren’t quite sure what she was seeking, but you had a feeling it had to do with illegal activity. And you’d sworn that off a long time ago. Well...most of it. If your matesprit had any knowledge of it, she cast a blind eye to it and let you be. Her visits were so infrequent that you had to take what you could get.

You had a rather thick pad of paper with many notes written on them. You hoped the mutant would be satisfied with it, and maybe would leave you alone. Then you could return to your normal life. Playing music for all sorts of people, forgetting to do basic things like grocery shopping until it was too late, and going on dates with your matesprit.

You knew that the sun was just beginning to rise, as you prepped your violin for today's show in your somewhat illegal bar. You had a good crowd going tonight. Maybe you’d earn a little extra coin. Who knew? But it was at the exact moment that you began playing one of your favorite ballads that a familiar figure strode through the doorway. She had her hood thrown back, but her eyes looked suspiciously around the bar.

Behind her trailed the blueblood. You weren’t quite sure why she kept him in her company. He was a looming discomfort to everyone in near proximity that wasn’t her. Perhaps he was a scare-tactic? Didn’t seem to be her style, but you didn’t know her all that well.

You kept playing your ballad, body automatically doing what you had to do, but you were focused on the mutant and her companion. They chose the same table as before, and the mutant sat with her hands folded on top of one another, her gaze set on you. The blueblood looked around, seemingly just studying the place with no real purpose.

You finished your ballad and accepted a polite applause. Just to annoy the mutant, you played three more songs before finally making your way to her table. Her face betrayed nothing; just blankness with sharp eyes that seemed to be calculating a number of things. They fixed on you, an unnatural bright hue to them.

You pulled the notes out of one of your numerous pockets, tossing it on the table before sitting down across from them. The mutant smiled a little, a condensing sort of amusement could be gleaned from her face.

“I presume you did as we asked?” she asked, though it conveyed a tone that suggested she already knew the answer.

“It’s not as if you gave me much of a choice,” you said flatly, crossing your arms.

“We gave you multiple choices. What made you think otherwise?”

“Two suspicious-looking trolls enter my establishment and practically order me to takes notes for them on what I hear. Would  _ you  _ think to do anything but what they asked?”

“I would’ve thought you to have more creativity. After all, that’s a lovely ring you’re sporting there,” the mutants gaze flickered down for a minute before returning to your gaze.

You had the urge to hide your hand, but you kept it out. Your matesprit was perfectly fine. Well protected. She could beat anything that came her way. She had backup, after all, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t done it before.

“Still, I finished what you asked me to do. Now leave me the hell alone.” You made to rise up, but the mutant stopped you.

“Though such a thing would be able to repay half of the debt, I need to investigate the quality of the work right now, and  _ then _ decide what a decent payment would be for you. In other words less eloquently spoken, park your ass back down.”

Her blueblood companion snorted. He looked as if he were holding back laughter. You watched the mutant hide a smile behind her own hand, looking at him as her eyes crinkled up with delight.

You sat down, trying hard not to glare. The mutant composed herself and began to look over the notes. If she was surprised by your black ink instead of using bronze, or better yet--the purple hue you were so fond of posing as--she hid it well. Just looked it over professionally, before coming to the end and returning her gaze back to you.

“This is marvelous work, as far as I’m concerned. I wish you to keep taking these notes. Come to the library--or if you prefer warmblood words; the researchblock--tomorrow when the moon is halfway through the sky. I shall have your compensation then.”

Your digestive sac twisted a little, but you ignored it.

“Fine!” you snapped. “Now get out of my establishment.”

The mutant looked amused. She rose out of her seat, causing her companion to do the same. “You have much to learn about being a good hostess, Musician.”

You watched them leave, the mutants cloak sweeping as she turned. Her hood back on, and her companion following her example. It was a few minutes after they left before you realized you were shaking.

* * *

=> Be the curious blueblood

Ferhal was investigating the library. Or reaserchblock. Whatever you want to call it. It was interesting, to say the least. She had numerous books open, her own journal in the midst, and she was reading furiously. And writing. She’d copy random things down on the government, and then switch to something on farming, jot something else down, and then write furiously on electricity. As far as you could tell, she was trying to absorb as much as she could before returning to the Court of Miracles. She reminded you of a tunnelbeast: she’d go out of the burrow to find food for her young and then return to bestow it upon them.

Your mind flickered back to yesternight’s conversation. The Musician had radiated fear, even if she hadn’t been aware of it. Ferhal was obviously up to her tricks again, toying with her mind. You didn’t particularly care about this case, but you felt a tiny bit of remorse that the Musician was the one suffering through her games. You appreciated her talents, even if impersonating a highblood was a bit blasphemous.

“Could you get me a book on basic legislation please?” Ferhal asked, interrupting your thoughts.

You rose out of your chair and searched for the book. When you came back, the bronzeblood had finally arrived.

She was still dressed in the suit. She nervously adjusted the purple bowtie and looked down at Ferhal.

“Well? What’s my reward?” she asked. Her tone was still sharp.

Ferhal held up a finger. Her gaze was fixed on the book in front of her, and she was furiously writing something. You handed her the book, and she snatched it from you, flashing apologetic eyes before returning them to her project. She tossed the old book aside, and opened the new one, flipping to a blank page and writing furiously.

It took a few minutes, but once she was done, she closed her journal with a loud  _ thud! _ She captchalogued the journal and her pen, standing up.

“Apologies for that, but we’re preparing for a bit of a separate project to the one at hand. As for your reward, I was wondering if, perhaps, you would like to spend a couple of weeks with us to debate over that. I’m not quite sure what I shall offer you, but I want to be sure that it’s worthy of you.” you were about as baffled by Ferhal’s words as the Musician was.

“Why would I even trust you? You could be a murder or something!” the Musician said loudly.

“Because I can give you protection that your matesprit wouldn’t be able to give you without stirring up much,” Ferhal replied in a low voice. She had a very thin smile on her face, probably from the murderer comment.

The Musician narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Surely you know how many highbloods are out there, who don’t like the fact that their Empress chose you instead of someone ‘higher’ up. They’d like to eliminate you any way possible. If they ever discovered you secret, it would be an immediate culling, no questions asked.”

“Are you  _ threatening _ me?”

“Of course not. Merely stating facts. I could offer you protection with one of my contacts. In return, you supply us with information. Anything you hear. Every perigee. Believe me, this is a fair bargain.”

“You are absolutely shit when talking to people, you know that?”

You decided you’d better intervene before everything went nasty.

“The Untahmed’s business isn’t really talking,” you explained. “I doubt she’s really sure on how to talk to you without making it sound menacing. Not all of us are gifted with eloquent speaking habits. Especially wild ladies in the shady sort of business.”

“You’re not out of the woods either, Big Blue. What the fuck does she want?”

“A bargain. Albeit, a pretty shitty one, but I think she wants to show you another perspective of things before letting you take the job. That’s her repayment. A new perspective. The Untahmed has never been good at stuff like that. She’s usually a straight up thief in a way. But I’d recommend you take it. If she promises you no harm, she’s going to keep her word.”

The Musician studied you both with wary eyes. “And how do I know that?”

“Chances are, you’ll meet the troll who raised her while we’re traveling. She’s...shy, but knows the Untahmed. I know her pretty well myself, even though I’m not her moirail.”

“Fine,” the Musician snapped after a while. “But I want to return in one piece to my matesprit, understood?”

The Untahmeds eyes glittered, though it wasn’t like how they usually did. They didn’t shine like a meowbeast knowing it had its prey cornered. It was more of an opportunity glean...though you weren’t sure what exactly the opportunities were. You had a feeling you were about to find out.

* * *

 

The journey went fairly well. At least, to the Alphabet’s hive. The Musician dressed a little more sensibly for the two weeks she’d be staying with you. It was still prim and proper though. Today she was wearing a button down with sturdy-looking shoes. She didn’t bring any sort of bag, opting to do what you and Ferhal did: remain completely dependent on your sylladex.

The Alphabet greeted you all warmly. She certainly looked older than she had, and you had to remind yourself that a few sweeps had passed since you’d last seen her. Of course, she was thrilled to see you were still in Ferhal’s company. She continued to subtly ask the status of your quadrants until Ferhal impatiently replied that you both switched between black and red, and threatened to strangle her if she dared start making a big fuss out of it. Which of course, prompted her to make a big fuss.

The Musician watched, bemused until the Alphabet came to her next.

“And who might we have here?” the old troll asked, hobbling forward to grasp the taller trolls hand.

“This is the Musician,” Ferhal replied. “She’s traveling with us for two weeks as repayment for her informative job that I commissioned out of her awhile ago before we set out to deal with another oinkbeast.”

The Alphabet sighed, pinching the bridge of her sniff nub between two fingers. “I was afraid that was your work. Don’t tell me anymore. If you get caught, I don’t want to be the one to drag you down.”

“I know, mentor, relax. I know what I’m doing. I wanted to visit you for awhile before moving on. I wanted to know if you had any books on certain subjects.”

The Alphabet brightened considerably. “What kind did you have in mind?”

The two disappeared in the Alphabet’s small hive; one bent over awkwardly, the other old and barely capable of moving. The Musician seemed to be studying them, though she didn’t do so outwardly.

“She’s the one who raised her?” the Musician asked.

You nodded. “Yeah. The Alphabet took her in after she escaped slavery.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. “The Untahmed was a runaway slave?”

“Yup. Mutants are either culled or used as slaves, you should know that. Obviously, they need to be useful in some respect before they’re spared, but the Dominion didn’t care too much about that. It was his greed that was his downfall.”

“The Dominion...runaway mutant slave…” the Musician murmured. “Of course, how did I not see it before? I was about seven and a half sweeps when he sent out those warnings. Those requests to bring her back, but came back with nothing. I never thought they were the same people though. So she killed the Overseer?”

You nodded. The Musician was quiet for awhile.

“So she is a murderer?” she stated.

You held your palms towards the sky and shifted them up and down; reminding yourself of the legislation scales they frequently used in court. You supposed it was the most accurate thing to use though. “Technically, everyone on Alternia is a murder. You can’t honestly tell me that you’ve never killed someone, even in self-defense.”

She pursed her lips. “That’s different.”

“I fail to see how.”

“You see the world in black and white. I see all of the gray patches in between.”

“No,” you shook your head, dropping your hands to your sides. “The Untahmed sees the world in black and white. The Alphabet thinks she has ‘unflawed’ logic, but that's a bit of a lie. No one has unflawed logic. Maybe if we had two people of her bloodline, similar in age, then maybe we’d have a good counterbalance to what she does, but the Untahmed is essentially the black parts of the world. She tries to act like the white parts, but she’ll always be a little fucked up when it comes to that.”

The Musician tilted her head to the side. “You don’t defend her?”

“I defend her. When she’s not in fault of something. And in this case, she’s definitely guilty. As are all of we. Just not in her eyes.”

“How is that even possible that a mutant like herself is that fucked up? She’s a tealblood mutant, not anything higher like you. Your caste is prone to being unstable...not tealbloods.”

“Maybe her inability to sleep in sopor slime, coupled with the fact that she has a few highblood issues--like strength and occasionally unique rages--and a poor wrigglerhood might’ve produced it, but I’d rather not speculate about the exact reasons behind my matesprits slightly messed up mentality, so let's changed the subject. Where do you hail from in regards to your first hive?”

“I lived in a mountain range on a different continent from this one. Same accent. Rougher country. You?”

“Wherever I really wanted to be for the most part. It was the jungle for awhile. Briefly in the desert. But then the Big Top decided to call me in to pay off a debt that my ancestor owed. He promised his descendent to them as a servant, which is pretty fucked up. I originally wanted to join their ranks, but obviously that’d be impossible now.”

“You wanted to be a subjugglator?”

“Of course. They’ve got a pretty good gig going on. Granted, all of them think that you need to bathe in the righteous blood of those slain for transgressions less than appropriate for what the blood is intended to be used for.”

“So you believe blood should be collected by actual criminals?”

“Well, I’ve been getting my collecting on whenever we have a job. I’ve almost got the entire hemospectrum except for fuchsia of course.”

“I should hope you never collect fuchsia. Sacrilegious, you know.”

“Not really. I think it’s usually not included because of being respectful and all that jazz. If the Church had the option to, they’d add it.”

“Well, I’d hope that  _ you _ would have the decency to exclude it if you had the choice.”

“Of course, I’m not  _ that _ bad. What do you take me for?”

“Someone I can’t predict the next move of.”

You grinned. “Well, that would be why my title is the Wildcard.”

The Musician wrinkled her sniff nub. “Well, there’s no accounting for taste.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know my title is a wonderful thing! My ancestors was slightly altered, mostly because he was a dickhead-”

“Your ancestor was the Betrayer--at least in certain texts I managed to find--and should feel relieved that I am incapable of hunting him down and delivering swift punishment for his bullshit.” the Untahmed growled as she ducked out of the Alphabet’s hive. The Musician jumped, still unaccustomed to her presence. But you laughed.

“Babe, if I didn’t hate him so platonically, I would almost feel bad for the asshole,” you wrapped an arm around her shoulders, kissing her forehead.

She allowed a brief smile to flit across her face before it returned to her stony mask.

“Musician, can we take a walk please?” she asked.

The Musician eyed her warily, but accepted the invitation. The two females left you standing, staring at the place where they’d left. You contemplating following them, but you decided they’d bond better if the Untahmed was left to work on her charm. She was very good at interacting with people when it didn’t involve a bargain. Well...most of the time.

=> Mutant: Talk to the frightened music player

You took in a deep breath of fresh air, your lips curling up at the corners now that you were back in your forest. Very few things had changed, and you were okay with that. The Musician was quiet beside you.

“Do you like books?” you asked, which caught her off guard.

“Yes, I’m fond of reading, I suppose,” the Musician replied. “I rarely get to because of my work. When I was younger, I frequently did the opposite but then my matesprit came into the picture and I decided to put a little more effort into what I did.”

“You’re a natural procrastinator?”

“Yup. You?”

“I’ve never been a procrastinator and I doubt I ever will be,” you replied. “There is simply too much to do to allow me to do much relaxing most of the time. I have plans that need to be set in motion, people that need justice delivered...things like that. My agenda is very packed. I doubt I’ll ever be free to just relax and do nothing.”

The Musician was quiet for awhile. “Do you ever do anything that’s not for yourself?”

You considered it. “I wouldn’t say I’m in a position to answer such questions. You may want to ask Wildcard-”

“I asked  _ you _ though,” she interrupted. “Honestly, I kind of can’t stand him. He’s too flippant, too relaxed, too  _ okay _ with all of this. If I wasn’t into blackrom, I’d probably be waxing black for him like nobodies business.”

You laughed a little. “I’m afraid he’s spoken for there. I sort of claimed him in two quadrants thanks to my own tendency to get annoyed with him.”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine. I’m not like most people with their quadrants,” you paused a moment. “But I do have to say that I cannot answer you previous question. I don’t do self-analysis, and for a good reason. It’s distracting.”

“I figured you’d say that,” you both fell into a comfortable silence. The Musician opened her mouth like she was about to say something, but then closed it. Then she opened it again. “I’m not very good with people either,” she admitted. “With instruments, you can learn how to coax out sounds. You can convince them to sing music for you. And all it takes is practice. But with people; even ones you’ve known for sweeps, they change. My instruments are always the same. They don’t change. But people do.”

You nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s what makes them so fascinating sometimes. Even if I hate people who do wrong, I do appreciate change.”

“Why?”

“The world would be a very boring place without it. I like challenges. I like having to figure my way out of problems, and stuff like that. Very few people interest me drastically, because I’ve gotten a read on most of their mannerisms. Even you don’t offer that much of a challenge. But you’re interesting, even if predictable. I suppose that’s why I even bothered inviting you on this trip.”

“I thought the reason was repayment for my information.”

“There was that too,” you allowed. “But I do find your companionship rather enjoyable. Which, by the way, does not mean I’m interested in being in a quadrant with you, but merely friends.”

The Musician laughed a little. “I thought I was poor at communicating, but you definitely don’t know how to broach simple things without it sounding sinister and overly complicated.”

“I haven’t had much use in my life to not sound like that. Sounding overly complicated is how I confuse my enemies.”

She laughed and you felt yourself smiling a bit. Soon, you were talking about a manner of things, mostly book related things. She admitted she was rather fond of the Alphabets writings. She was one of the few lowblood authors who’d actually been published, and the fact that you’d been raised by her was incredible.

And though you still had plans to carry through; things that had to be done...you could understand why friendships seemed so important to some.

* * *

 

You were quite content for the two nights you spent with the Alphabet. Of course, Yaviin and Boriss had snuck out to visit as well, delighted to see you and Zanaro, but very polite to the Musician. It struck you that they’d been suspicious of Zanaro at first, but the Musician earned their warmth right away. You supposed it was natural. Zan was a blueblood; part of a very brutal caste. The Musician was bronze. She wouldn’t be a likely threat to them.

Boriss did tell you that they were beginning to be questioned for speaking to a hooded figure. As was the Alphabet. He had no idea what was going to happen to them, but it was likely the Knhitter would authorize a culling. She didn’t really care who she had to cull, so long as it stopped the systematic brutal murderers of her royals.

You had to laugh a little at the idea of her ever catching you, but you decided to offer a bit of protection from the Court of Miracles. He denied moving down there just yet, but he had a feeling that it would be necessary eventually. The Alphabet, of course, was opposed to the entire thing. She insisted upon staying in her cottage. She was too old to move. That was her excuse anyways.

You silently began planning a guard watch in your head with a few of your contacts. No one would touch your mentor if you could help it. And you most certain could.

But when you had to move on, you gave Yaviin and Boriss some very strict rules. They weren’t allowed to stay out late. Don’t be anywhere alone. Keep your weapon on you at all times. Purchase or make an absurd amount of locks and make it seem like no one is ever in your hive. Stock up on food. Act like you’re preparing for war.

You were also silently making plans to move them down. The Court of Miracles would be happy to have people with their skillset. And you would be delighted to have a few more friends living down there.

Wherever you went, the Musician seemed surprised by the work you took up. One particular job had her crying a little. An elderly couple; one freed and one still a slave for some minor crime, had commissioned you in freeing the slave one. You had the documents made up rather quickly. Your contact was nearby and their work was perfect. You twinge of satisfaction seeing them hug, finally reunited. You were suspecting it was either flushed or pale, but either way, it was nice to see them happy.

You didn’t even bother taking their money. They needed it more than you, after all.

“So why don’t you take people’s money?” the Musician asked after awhile. She had unbuttoned the first few buttons on her shirt and her sleeves were rolled up to the elbow.

“No need for it. At least, most of the time. I only accept money from people who I know can afford it. Zanaro and I don’t buy food, we hunt for it. And the Alphabet made our clothes ages ago. They’re surprisingly tough,” you replied, casually smushing a bug under your thumb.

“What about other things? Books and stuff like that?”

“Well, obviously we obtain books that way. I’ve done my fair share of stealing though. I always repay them in something equal to whatever I took.”

“You don’t like leaving open ends,” the Musician was smiling.

“There is power in favors. A power greater than any coin you could carry on your person, or the alleged new money they’re coming out with. A favor can buy you respect, supplies and help eight-times over. Money only buys you one thing, once. And nobody remembers you if you pay with coins.”

“So what you mean to say, without all of your vague bullshit, is that you don’t like owing people more than you can avoid because if you do, you risk being owned by things you’ll owe in the future.”

“Precisely.”

And it seemed as if your plan was working beautifully. With each day, you could see the Musician softening a bit. She would occasionally make some sort of joke, and was a fantastic cook, as much as you hated admitting it. You’d grown used to simply eating raw meat and plants, but she uncapchalogged a pot from her sylladex and set to making a soup for you all one night.

You would’ve been tempted to offer her a spot as a justicebringer, but you could tell she wouldn’t be interested. This budding friendship was that of two trolls, capable of joking around a little and enjoying similar things. It was not one built on the same kind of relationship you had with Zanaro. And though you never learned her hatchname and she never learned yours, both of you frequently yelled at Zanaro for doing  _ something _ idiotic. He always laughed when you yelled at the same time. Quite like how he broke the standards and rules for everything else, he was completely content with being addressed to with his hatchname. As well as a range of other ones...like fucktwit, bulgesniffer, sucker-of-waste-shoots and sometimes, simply shithead.

He usually laughed when you called him one of those. You frequently got more frustrated with him when that happened. But despite some of the tension between the Musician and Zanaro, you could see the appeal of adding her to your group. You’d protect her. No strings attached this time. Your little group was getting ready to travel to your final destination of these two weeks, and you realized that you weren’t anticipating it, like you thought you would be. The bronzeblood had annoyed you greatly before getting to know her. But know that you understood, it was quite similar to leaving old hunting grounds for the first time.

The Musician was confused as to where you were going. All you’d told her was “a special place”, but that could mean anything. And even though you’d become somewhat friends in two weeks, she still didn’t completely trust you. Yet. But that was okay. You were patient. And you were willing to bet that once she saw the Court of Miracles, she’d finally stop flinching a little when you said such vague things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, but in real time news: I broke my iPod's home button. And I have no idea how that happened. So there was a bit of a mini-breakdown at the thought of losing the device that ive had for five years. Fortunately, my son; Sushi, was a wonderful bean, and told me that you could activate this on-button on the screen, so everyone, please bless her.
> 
> Next chapter may feature some very new characters. I haven't decided yet. We finally have the names of three people's ancestors and one dude's ancestor doesn't exist. At this rate, we may have to have him be like the Handmaid in the sense that he's born later or whatever. idk. Also, Game On will be posted on here, but only select people will have access to the blog that features drawings and music. Stuff like that. Maybe some animations if anyone wants to submit those at some point.
> 
> I've also made a Game On server on Discord, but that thing ain't open to the public yet, so y'all gotta wait.
> 
> Now then, my mom's calling me for dinner and I've got a davekat fanfiction to reread. Hope you all enjoyed! :)


	13. A Sea Journey Reveals Much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Untahmed and the Wildcard go on a sea trip with a slightly crazy oliveblood, two more ancestors are introduced, a few people bleed on feathers and there are probably more birds than there are people in this entire chapter.
> 
> Also, several moments that the Untahmed realizes emotions are kind of useful for relationships.

=> Be the slightly glum mutant tealblood

Glum is the perfect word what you’re feeling. It was only a few days ago that you dropped the Musician off in her town and had been on the road again. Since it was getting trickier to walk around in this particular continent area--especially since half of this one was desert--you and Zanaro were planning to sail to the next one over. You were avoiding East Alternia as long as possible, considering the drastic differences in languages, but the next continent over; Leelando, spoke the same language as your own.

The only trouble was finding a captain. You were attempting to not rely on your contacts that much, but eventually, the strain of finding one before you were eventually brought in for questioning by the excess amounts of drones beginning to prowl around all of your usual drop spots. You even ordered Sweepers to cease their trips up; if even one of them was caught, the entire Court of Miracles would be threatened. Instead, they were to focus on tunneling. You were planning to gain another map of Leelando when you go there.

If you even got there.

But one contact provided. Your informant told you of an oliveblooded captain named the Seafarer. He didn’t know much about him, only that he wasn’t likely to question you too much, and he made maps. His price was reasonable too. His ship--really, more like a large boat--operated on a small crew of lowbloods.

When you met him, you were fascinated. The Seafarer was short, with long, messy hair, and horns that protruded near the back of his head, but almost immediately curling back down in a straight line. He had old scars from his sea voyages and wore a green coat that was tattered at the end, boots, and a white sash tied around his waist. The tip of his left ear was pierced. He wore a very tattered captains hat, and his beard was quite scruffy. You’d seen a few trolls capable of growing stubble--with Zanaro being the prime candidate--but never a full on beard.

He greeted you somewhat gruffly, seemingly distracted by something as he barked out a few orders to his crew.

“Stay below deck or stay out of the way if you decide to come up. I don’t want to get any complaints about you doing whatever to each other, so keep the buckets in your sylladex and any possible papping to the minimum. Let me know if you’re interested in buying maps. And stay out of my shit,” his voice was odd, an accent thick in there. Clearly, he wasn’t from your continent.

“Of course, Captain. We thank you for your generosity; letting us on the ship at such short notice.”

He grunted. “Just obey my rules or I’ll toss you off to the sea beasts below.”

Below deck was boring. A few recuperacoons were available, which you encouraged Zanaro to use, but he declined. He’d grown used to sleeping without sopor slime. And besides, it made his weak chucklevoodoos even weaker. He wanted them to be as strong as they currently were. Which, granted, wasn’t as powerful as a normal indigoblood would have, but it was still powerful enough.

The voyage was rather boring. The most exciting thing you did was write in your journal or talk to Zanaro. You wanted to talk to the Seafarer, but he was too busy. Everyone else on the ship avoided you, and you likewise. You kept yourself wrapped in your cloak, concealing your eyes from everyone but Zanaro, who purposefully pressed his forehead to yours to look in your eyes.

Your conversations were low, and you frequently ended up wrapped in your cloak. You insisted he have some of it, despite the fact that the cold didn’t bother him as much. The price of your mutation: you could withstand the desert and heat overall, but you were cold. He, on the other hand, could withstand the cold wind that blew in during the night. Moving closer to him didn’t help. It made it worse. But you did manage to make warm areas where your skin touched.

You did reveal a few memories you’d stashed away in your journal to Zanaro. Privately, of course. He marveled at them, unsure as to how you’d managed such a thing. You gave credit where credit was due and told him it was the Alphabet’s doing, mostly. You just brought the memory to mind. Though she’d taught you her process of doing it, you’d both discovered your talents did not lie there. So whenever you journeyed to her hive, you recalled the memory as best as you could, and she stashed it in the journal.

Zanaro was duly impressed. He wanted to add his own memories at some point. You promised him he could, kissing his forehead before stashing the book away. It was beginning to become natural to do things like that. Being romantic, while not your strongest suit, never seemed to bother him. He was content with you. And you began to grow content with him. Even if you were frequently annoyed with him, it no longer felt foreign to accept him as him.

He was Zanaro Hexxus. The kindest blueblood you’d ever met. He was more likely to offer someone a hand than threaten to cull them. He never listened to rules, except for when they really mattered to you, like boundaries you’d set up in the relationship early on. He liked to tell bad jokes. And sometimes he told good ones. He always seemed to have far too many teeth, but his grin was just as sweet as it was sharp. He liked soft things; soft hair, soft skin, soft clothes. He liked intimacy: being gentle and cuddling. He would listen to anything you had on your mind, and offer some sort of word after; may it be comfort or advice. He didn’t coddle you, but he knew when to speak up and protect you. He was endlessly fascinated with whatever you did. And for some strange reason, he truly loved your eyes.

Normally, you’d smack yourself for being so sentimental. But being on a ship, with virtually nothing to do made you sentimental. And you realized that this was the first time you were allowed to wrap yourself up in your thoughts; so completely and utterly, since you were a young child. Had you been so flushed for Zan that you hadn’t even realized it until you were allowed to think about it?

You said nothing to him. But you made sure to study his eyes more frequently. He let you braid his hair from time to time; so he frequently was sporting small braids in a wild, mess of hair. You traced his face with your fingertips, memorizing each and every crevice. You admired his smile. And you enjoyed his company just a bit more than you had originally.

“Are you happy?” you asked softly one night. You were adding another braid to his hair, wanting to do something semi-productive with your hands.

“Yeah, I’m happy,” he replied. Zanaro had his head in your lap, his hands resting on the area where his digestive sac was. “You?”

You considered your answer. “I’m not quite sure what happiness is, I suppose,” you confessed. “But I think...content...is a good word for what I feel.”

Zanaro smiled a little. “Well, ‘content’ is better than nothing.”

“You are an optimist.”

“That’s not a bad thing. Especially since I’ve got you to even me out with your pessimism.”

You found yourself smiling a little. You released the finished braid and leaned down to cradle his head a little. “This ship has made me realize many things. I’m glad you’re here with me.”

“Me too,” he replied and kissed your chin when you went to sit up.

* * *

 

A few days later, you were simply lying together, when you decided you wanted to watch the ocean pass by. Zanaro obliged, as usual. He was amused by your fascination with the ocean and the beasts below.

“And to think,” you said. “All of that is owned by the Empresses and seadwellers.”

“Pretty crazy, huh?” he replied and wrapped an arm around your waist.

You heard the cry of an ocean featherbeast, but that wasn’t what drew your attention to the sky. It was the sound of hundreds of featherbeasts flapping their wings at once that caught your eye. And amidst them; a strange, non-featherbeast shape gliding towards the ship. The crew had a different reaction.

“Captain!” one troll shouted. “It’s  _ her _ again!”

“What should we do, sir?” another cried.

“Hush, all of you. Let’s see what the siren wants first.” the Seafarer replied rather gruffly. He crossed his arms, watching as a troll-shaped figure descended to the docks. She appeared to be holding giant fans, which she folded up once she was over the ship. From there, she fell; flipping mid-air to slow her fall and landing in a crouched position...quite like how you would do one, actually. You had to admire her technique at the very least.

She rose very slowly. She was a little stocky, with serious teal-jade-ish eyes peeking out from behind her mask--which honestly reminded you of the top half of a fabled giant bird monsters skull. At least, it would have if it wasn’t made of shiny metal. The mask had carved designs; swirls and intricate art making it seem far more beautiful than if it was simply a plain metal helmet. Her skirt was made of feathers, and split down the middle, revealing leggings and absolutely no shoes. She had anklets though.

Half of her head appeared to be shaved, with a rather large poof of hair sweeping a little bit above the left eyehole. The rest of her hair was long, though not as long as yours. It was secured in a braid, with a few feathers carefully secured in here and there. They were an assortment of hues and sizes. Her shirt reminded you of one of the many vests that the Musician liked to wear.

She had strings of intricate braids and other designs on her wrists. Most of the “bracelets” were merely cords of leather with beads and other things strung on. One had a very shiny and irregular-looking rock tied to it. Another had a shard of pottery. Her horns reminded you of two feathers. They arched gracefully over her head, coiling a bit, with a ring around each of them, another half stemming off and curling down the other way.

You couldn't see her ears, but you knew she was a landdweller.

“What do want, you siren of the seas?” the Seafarer demanded.

She fixed him with a withering stare. “I come to offer food, and you treat me this way?”

“The only thing you offer is indigestion and annoyance.”

“And you repay guests with hostility and rudeness, therefore we’re even.”

She had a pleasant voice, though it didn’t sound like she used it very often.

The Seafarer mumbled something you didn’t quite pick up, but you suspected it had ‘old hag’ in there somewhere. The stranger said nothing, but stood quietly, her arms by her sides. The featherbeasts had perched on the ship, literally everywhere. They were a bit intimidating, watching the stranger with intent; eying her every move as if waiting for something.

“See here, you crusty old sea spike,” she said finally, interrupting his mumbling. “If you want to have another duel and lose, then be my guest. But I want you to get your dirty ship and dirty crew  _ away _ from my island, do you hear me?”

“Neither my ship nor my crew are dirty as long as your ugly featherbeasts don’t land on it and don’t shit on the deck,” he retorted, hooking his thumbs into the white cloth belt he wore.

“I’d certainly rather look at them before I saw your ugly face,” she replied.

The Seafarer drew out his weapon--a harpoon--and growled, his ears flattening. The stranger drew her fans out and moved her feet further out; bracing herself. But before anything could happen, one of the crewmates shouted “CAPTAIN!” which distracted him enough to realize what was going on outside the ship. You were about to crash into a cliff. The Seafarer scrambled to the wheel, but it was too late.

A decent sized hole was put into the ship, big enough to make moving a big mistake, but small enough to ensure the ship wouldn’t sink. The Seafarer began up a stream of curses. The stranger, meanwhile, was completely emotionless behind the mask. She kept her fans drawn, and hadn’t even moved like the rest of you.

“ _ You _ ,” the Seafarer practically snarled. “Will allow us to collect supplies and rest on your forsaken island until we can get this messed  _ fixed _ . And then I’m staying out of your blasted area for the rest of my sweeps, do you hear me?”

You couldn’t see the stranger's face, but she seemed annoyed by he tone. She fixed him with another glare. “We shall see,” she replied coldly, crouching down; raising her fans over her head and giving a powerful downward thrust. The movement caused her to be lifted rather high in the air, and the birds followed her, flying under her. You realized they created an updraft for her to sail on with her fans.

The Seafarer continued to curse a bit, and the other people that shared the ship with you began to emerge, loudly asking questions. You exchanged a glance with Zanaro but returned to watching the Seafarer.

He shouted “Quiet, all of you! Those who aren’t useful, return below decks. You two!” you found yourself being pointed at by a troll who managed to reach your rumble spheres. “You look like you know how to handle terrain as wild as this. Handle that  _ menace _ and see if she’ll give up any of her food.”

You didn’t like being ordered around, and you made that abundantly clear.

“I’d recommend showing some respect before you start ordering us around,  _ Captain _ ,” your voice was sharp enough to cut a rock. “Perhaps if you rephrased your request, we could consider it.” you even made it a bit of a point to bring out your old accent. Rolling the R's and making your T’s stronger. It was a very thick accent. You missed it.

The Seafarer shot you a bit of a glare, but then seemed to remember you were bigger and had more scars than him. “Fine. Could you  _ please _ see if she’ll help us?”

You exchanged a series of silent words with Zanaro just by using your eyes. Finally, you spoke up. “Very well then. We shall see if she can be bargained with. Is there a way off the ship?”

A small group of the crew lowered the boat they used to get ashore, and rowed you there, dropping you off and ordered you to return before daybreak. You informed them you’d come back when you pleased; most likely with the supplies they needed. They looked like they were about to protest, but then caught sight of Zanaro’s massive fangs and kept their mouths shut. They rowed silently back to the ship.

Zanaro yawned a bit, stretching his arms over his head. “So what’s the plan?”

“I like her,” you stated quietly. “I believe if we were to speak to her instead of the Seafarer, things would play out in our hands in a much better way, than should we allow him to fuck it all up.”

“Whatever you say, babe,” he grinned a little.

You both set upon the task of tracking her down. Normally, you would’ve put much more effort into it, but the island was covered in featherbeasts. Her scent was easily masked by their numerous forces. They studied you; all sorts of them, watching you with beady eyes as you moved through the forest.

Eventually though, perhaps by some luck or other force of nature, you did manage to come across her. She was sitting on a rock shelf, dipping her feet in the water of a stream. She did not give any indication that she had heard your approach, but she did not flinch when you sat down next to you. Her mask was still on.

“I presume that twat sent you to the island to gather supplies?” her voice could be considered emotionless, but you knew better.

You nodded.

“Well, tell him he’s not getting anything. I told him to leave my island alone, and that’s final.”

“If I wanted to deliver messages to people, my title wouldn’t be the Untahmed,” you replied, your voice measured. “Give him that message yourself, and leave me out of your black flirting. My partner and I have better things to do.”

She looked up at you in interest. “You named yourself ‘the Untahmed’?”

“My mentor did, but yes, I suppose I did.”

“I very rarely come across anyone with substance as far as names go, but yours is good. You dress much better than that twat too. Kudos to you.”

“Thanks, I suppose. What’s your title?”

“I am called the Aviarist. And your friend?”

“The Wildcard,” Zanaro flashed a smile. “I’m rather fond of it.”

The Aviarist did not give away any sign that she particularly cared whether he liked his title, but she did stand up.

“I presume you know how to survive in the wild? He would not have sent you here if he didn’t think you were smart enough.”

“Yes, we’re proficient in ways back home,” you replied. “But the jungle is new to me, and the Wildcard didn’t leave in a jungle that long.”

“Then I will consider teaching you,” the Aviarist said. She was quiet for a few minutes, before making a strange call with her mouth. One of the more dangerous-looking featherbeasts swooped in and plucked a fish from the water with its talons. The Aviarist made another call, and the featherbeast dropped the fish into her waiting hand.

“Why bother?” you asked.

“If you’re heading towards Leelando, you should at least attempt to pick up some basic jungle survival skills. The jungle is no joke.”

You studied her for a few minutes before shrugging. “I suppose.”

She wrinkled her sniff nub. “You may wash here. I shall make dinner for you, but then you will need to figure it out on your own. Do not harm or disturb my featherbeasts, understand?”

You nodded.

She offered her arm to the hovering predator featherbeast, allowing it to land, and was quickly swallowed by the tropical foliage. You both stared at the place she’d disappeared, before you sighed, and untied your skirt. You so rarely untied the garment, that it made Zanaro stop short for a few minutes.

“Uh, what are you doing?” he asked.

“Enjoying the stream. I’m not one to waste good water like this,” you replied, walking into the water.

“Pretty sure you’re supposed to bathe  _ without _ your clothes on, babe,” he replied mildly, already slinging his shirt off. “But by all means, carry on.”

You splashed him with some of the water. “You’re an ass.”

“But I’m  _ your _ ass,” Zanaro waggled his eyebrows at you. You retaliated by throwing the rest of your clothes at him. He laughed.

There was a bit of a splash when he finally got in. You turned around to see that he wasn’t quite as thoroughly doused as you were. You coaxed him further into the stream until the water was up to your shoulders. He splashed you a little, crouching enough to make it seem as if he was smaller. You ducked your head under the water, and when you emerged, you had to drag your claws through it to remove it from your vision. Zanaro laughed a little, but he stood up straight when you uncapchalogged the shampoo and handed it to him.

He was very careful with his claws. He kept his short, though he never explained why. You had a feeling he liked threading his fingers through your hair. He was always gentle when washing. You had a tendency to be a little too rough, though you didn’t mean to. He didn’t seem to mind that much. You supposed his skin was thicker than a warmbloods skin, being colder than anyone you were friends with.

_ Friends _ , the thought still seemed strange to you. You briefly reviewed how long it had been since you’d turned nine. It had been at least nine. Maybe more. You knew you’d spent one or two sweeps preparing for the Dominion. And you’d re-met Zanaro about five perigees after.

“Hey, Zan?” you asked. His fingers were gently massaging your horn beds.

“Hm?” he hummed.

“How long ago did we meet back up?”

“‘Bout twelve sweeps, I reckon. Maybe ten. I don’t keep track of time like you do,” he replied. His voice was lazy, and content. Happy, really. He’d been sounding like that so much more, recently.

“Twelve sweeps already?”

“You could probably ask anyone from the Dominions in the COM. They’d know.”

“I guess I will next rotation,” you murmured. Zanaro handed you the shampoo bottle back, and you exchange it with conditioner. He repeated the process.

“How long do rusts live?” you asked.

“Short time compared to me ‘n you, babe.”

“Yeah, but  _ how _ short?”

“Twelve to twenty-four if I’ve got my think-pan on right.”

“How old do you think the Alphabet was when she took me in?”

“You always described her as being middle aged when she took you in, so I’d say twelve. Add however many sweeps she spent raising you and then ten or twelve more sweeps and you’ve got twenty-nine...or thirty-one.”

You exhaled for so long that you had a feeling Zanaro got worried for a little bit. Finally, you spoke. “Shit.”

“Worried about her up and dying?”

“Of course. As the troll who raised me, she is deserving of the highest praise, the most worthy of my attention; next to you, of course. I didn’t think she’d die so quickly.”

“Sad fact of the matter. Rusts die pretty quick compared to us. They’re like candles.”

“Candles?”

“Wax lights. You light the wick on fire and it's like a lamp?”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah.”

You were both quite as he finished up. You dunked your head under the water again, rinsing the soap out.

“How long will I live?”

“One hundred thirty to one hundred fifty. Usually one hundred forty.”

“That’s so long, compared to her.”

“Indeed it is.”

“What about you?”

“We’re a caste apart, so I’ll live six hundred to eight hundred, probably around seven hundred.”

“Damn.”

“Mhm.”

You matesprit held out his hand, and you gave him the soap. You were accustomed to this ritual. He would clean you, and you would clean him. It was an old custom, one warmbloods used to do to in ancient days. It built trust among people, ensuring that you trusted them enough to not kill you while you were most vulnerable.

You purred a little when Zanaro scratched be back of your neck. He was always so careful.

“So who cut your hair when you were younger?” he asked, still rubbing your arms with the soap.

“No one. The Alphabet didn’t even try to. We just kept it long and tangled.” you replied.

“Didn’t trust her or…?”

“Oh, I trusted her plenty by the time I was six. But I just never wanted a shorter hairstyle. I like my hair long, even if it is a pain to move about freely. But it adds to the wild image, y’know? I’ve learned some very basic things in our line of business, and image is very important.”

Zanaro chuckled, but he bent over and kissed your neck. “If you say so, babe.”

“What about you?”

“I cut my own hair. Did a pretty decent job too.”

You were quiet, and Zanaro finished washing you. You splashed water over your body, rinsing off the soap from your body. Zanaro helped a little. His larger hands were perfect for the job.

“You seem a little different on this trip,” you broached softly. “Are you feeling well?”

Zanaro smiled a little. “Mhm. Just don’t got a lot to be complaining ‘bout, I suppose. Don’t got a lot to comment on. ‘Sides, your words are one hundred times more interesting, compared to anything that would come out of my think pan.”

“I did enjoy hearing some of your preaches about the Mirthful Messiahs, back when you recited them for me. You would’ve made a very good minstrelleader, had you been capable.”

Zanaro’s smile turned a little sad. “Well, I don’t reckon the messiahs would really want me worshipping them now, y’know.”

“If it’s about our actions, I call bullshit on that. You  _ know _ we only bring harm to those who rightfully deserve it. If we didn’t, the Messiah's wouldn’t bless us with such good fortune.”

“No, it ain’t that. I know they don’t exactly give a shit about what we do, I’m more saying that it’s hard to worship the Lord's above, and act like I’m already dead, with you around; bein’ so alive and shit like that. It feels like treason to your name to do that shit. And even if I ain’t your disciple, I’d still like to think of myself as your highest worshipper, if you get what I’m laying down here.”

You blinked. “What?”

Zanaro sighed. “Never mind. It’s not worth repeating.”

Your think pan buzzed with what he said, but you decided not to expand further. You found that you were both lingering in the water, despite both of you being clean. You, never one to be completely coy about affection, especially after sweeps of being together, you moved closer and wrapped your arms around him. He returned the gesture, pressing his cheek into your still-damp head.

“Zanaro, what do you think will become of us?” you asked softly.

“What do you mean?” he mumbled into your hair.

“I mean when we die. What do you think they’ll say about us?”

“The Empresses would probably have something on you at least. You’re making yourself Public Enemy Number One,” he was quiet for a few minutes. “You’re being very sentimental this trip. You alright?”

“I suppose a lot of the things that the Musician said while we spent those two weeks together started resonating inside of me. And I kind of realized that...I don’t  _ want _ to remain the way I am. I mean, if I preach about change and all that stuff, and the beauty in it, don’t you think it wrong of me to never change myself? Just remain the same old bitter troll that I’ve always been?”

Zanaro hummed in response. It wasn’t a positive or a negative sound, but more of a “go on” noise.

“And so I started doing some thinking...and self-reflection, even though I told myself that I never would.”

“Mhm?”

“And I realized a lot of things--not just about me--that I should pay more attention to. For example, how I treat you for starters.”

“Oh?”

“This is difficult for me to say...I’ve never...well, y’know…”

“Confessed anything mildly positive and sappy other than the time you said we could try being together?” he supplied, his voice oddly soft and gentle.

You lowered your eyes in response. He took that as an answer.

“I’ve never...been this  _ vulnerable _ since I was small and my lusus had just been killed. I began to block off the emotions the first time I was whipped. And then even more so when  **_he_ ** did what he did to me,” you took a deep, steadying breath. “But I guess that’s another part of change. You can’t just block everyone away, pretend that they’re not useful to you like I’ve always done. Because...because then they’ll never know how you  _ feel _ .”

Zanaro was quiet, though he did begin rubbing his thumb soothingly on your arm.

“You are my greatest treasure,” you blurted out. “Not that I’m saying you’re anything less than any other troll, but you are the only one who sees all of the things that I do, all of the things that I am and doesn’t leave me for it. I won’t bother denying that my thinkpan is all fucked up compared to others, anymore. This trip has given me a lot to think about. And I realize that out of all the things that  _ have _ changed, I could never change that. It’s...who I am now.”

Zanaro squeezed a little tighter; reassuring you he was listening.

“And even though my thinkpan is fucked up, and I constantly change my opinions or sometimes overall decisions that I’ve made beforehand, and that leads to a helluva confusing story that we’re writing, if you think about it,” you could feel Zanaro smile a little bit at that. “The one thing I can always remember clearly, even through all the screaming that goes on in my head, is that you’re always going to stand there and help me through it. From the most mundane to the goriest battle. And I’m going to try my hardest to return the favor.”

There was silence for awhile, just the quiet lapping of waves against your skin and the shore. You could also hear your breaths; in, out. In. Out. Smooth and steady. Comforting. You were close enough that you could feel his blood pusher too. Assuring you he was alive.

“Normally, I’d say ‘you being alive and choosing me is payment enough’,” Zanaro’s voice was slow and cautious. “But I know you wouldn’t accept that as a worthy payment. So, in true Hexxus fashion: whatever makes you happy, babe.”

* * *

 

After a solid week on the island, you’d pegged a few things down about the Aviarist. For starters, she was very quiet. On the rare occasion that you  _ did _ run into her, she said no words. And though she kept her mask off on her island, she never let you see her face. She was serious: not prone to laughing at any attempt at humor that Zanaro made. Even if some of his jokes managed to get  _ you _ smiling.

But the most interesting thing you’d discovered was her ability to communicate with the millions of featherbeasts on her island. She was most certainly not a communer. But she’d learned their languages, and could mimic their songs. It was fascinating to watch.

Of course, she didn’t open up at all. She showed you a few brief lessons, gave you a list of things to avoid as far as plants went, and left you be to test your skills. You mastered them quickly. The plants on the island were dangerous, but your will to live had always proven to be stronger than royalty, trolls with whips and nature itself. The Aviarist made no comment on your quick mastery, and merely remained silent when you continued to try and bargain for the needed supplies. You knew the Seafarer would be becoming anxious soon, but you couldn’t coax her into anything. She seemed to be waiting for something. But what?

Of course, you didn’t bother asking those things as you dangled from a cliff. There was an injured featherbeast on the mountain, in danger of falling down further on one of the smaller footholds. You weren’t sure how the tiny creature had made it there, but you decided helping it couldn’t hurt your chances of gaining the Avairists interests.

Meanwhile, Zanaro fretted above. He was nervous you’d fall and break your neck, but your arms were strong from the training of your youth and had bulked up considerably thanks to all you’d done. It was something you had to remind him constantly.

You held your hand out for the featherbeast to hop its way over, but you suspect its leg was broken as well as a wing. You’d have to get closer. You decided to gamble a little and flung yourself a little closer. Your hands grabbed the ledge and held. Your feet dangled freely, but you didn’t move. As if sensing your intentions, the featherbeast managed to hop its way; with one leg operational, to your hair where it laid. Now came the interesting part.

The rest of the cliff was practically smooth without any foot-holds. It was this cliff the ship had crashed into, and you could see a few people pointing up to you. You could feel your fingers slipping, but just as you began to fall, a feathery back caught you. You carefully sat up to realize you were on the back of a massive featherbeast, though it lacked any legs as you soon realized.

It was pure white. Like a lusus. And it tilted its head up to study you, you could swear it was smiling in a featherbeast-ish way. Its wings cut through the wind like it was nothing, and soon you found yourself back at the top of the cliff with a practically hysterical Zanaro frantically rambling about you dying.

Beside him was the Aviarist. She was completely calm, her arms hugging her sides as she studied you. Her mask was off.

The featherbeast-snake-thing landed gracefully and dipped its head towards the Aviarist who smiled at it. She had three prominent fangs sticking out; two on the side and one in the middle. It was a round, kind face. It seemed relatively shy compared to yours and Zanaros. Her eyes were a combination of wide and narrow: wide as they went towards the edges of her face, but narrow as they pointed towards her sniff nub. Half of her head was definitely shaved. She had two feathers in the half of her hair like a bit of a statement. And a smaller one that was white.

_ Like the creature who’s back you currently sat on. _

The featherbeast-snake lowered its head for the Aviarist to pat it, and she did, murmuring praises to it. Then she raised her eyes to you.

“You risked your life to save one of mine?” the Aviarist asked. Her voice was so much clearer without the mask.

You nodded. “No creature deserves to die, crippled like this.” You cupped your hands, scooping up the featherbeast to hand it to her. The featherbeast-snake unfolded one of its wings, allowing you to slide down off of it. You walked to the Aviarist and handed her the featherbeast. The Aviarist smiled at the small creature and rubbed her sniff nub against its small body.

“You are kind,” she said, lifting her head up. “Much kinder than I thought you’d be.”

You shrugged. “I’m not always so kind,” you confessed. “I’ve done bad things before. But this trip has made me rethink some things.”

The Aviarist smiled. A real, honest smile. “Perhaps you should take trips more often,”

Moving the injured featherbeast to one hand, the Aviarist began threading her fingers through her skirt until she found a perfectly white feather; a bit larger than the others. She pulled it out, and momentarily bit the hard end of it, grabbing Zanaros hand momentarily and putting the featherbeast in his hair.

He stopped rambling and watched as she took one of her sharp, talon-like claws, and cut into his palm with a quick, practiced jerk of the wrist. Then, she flipped the hand so a few drops of blood fell on the feather. You watched in fascination as the blood dyed the feather Zanaro’s hue.

“This is for you,” the Aviarist said, dropping Zanaro’s hand. She approached you and somehow, managed to attach the feather to your hair tie. “A little gift from me and him, so that you will not forget Paradise, nor will you forget the one you love most.”

She stepped back when she was done, still smiling a little. “I shall send over the supplies you asked for. From now on, you are a friend of Paradise and shall be treated as such. I shall send one of my featherbeasts with you on your trip, so that you may write to me when you need our help. My lusus; Apus, will take you back to the boat, which should be mended by now. Treat her with respect.”

You found yourself smiling a bit as well. “Of course, Aviarist. I wouldn’t dream of treating her any differently.”

“My eyes and ears will always be watching,” the Aviarist replied. “So do well, or forsake Paradise. It has been a pleasure to have you on my island.”

“Is there any message I should bring to the Seafarer?”

The Aviarists lips curled into a very amused smile. “Tell him he’s free to return to Paradise if he wants to complete that duel anytime soon. And that’s the  _ only _ reason I’d ever want him near my waters again.”

“I’d be willing to be that there’s more to it than that,” Zanaro interjected for the first time since he started rambling.

The Aviarist glanced at him, still smiling. “Oh, there’s always more to that in a blackrom. And I will have him yet.”

You and Zanaro climbed onto Apus’ back, as she--you were definitely sure about this one if it was the Aviarists lusus--flew you back to the ship, causing much panic as the giant featherbeast-snake landed on the ship. You were sure to give her a pat goodbye and watched with wonder as featherbeasts of all shapes and sizes delivered the supplies.

One featherbeast with all black feathers soared through the air, landing on your shoulder. He had a metal tube attached to his leg, and his beak was curled like the predator featherbeasts you’d seen. His talons were sharp like them too. Tucked into his neck feathers was a single, small white one with a note attached to it in unfamiliar handwriting, but with the same jade-teal hue the Aviarists eyes had:  _ Claim him and name him _ .

You smiled a little as you dragged a claw across your wrist, allowing the blood to stain the white feather. You didn’t know what to do next, but something made the feather fly to the featherbeasts forehead. A bright red-orange feather, longer than any of the others, stood proudly. You gave a gentle pull at it and found it was permanently stuck on. Curiouser still, his eyes glowed with your color now.

You looked back up to the cliff as the Seafarers ship began to pull away. Apus had flown away, and the crew was sorting through supplies, but there was a lone troll standing on the cliff watching you leave. You smiled up at it, idly stroking the featherbeasts head. Fílos would be a  _ perfect _ name for him. After all, you supposed the Aviarists intent would be for him to become your new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Fílos" means "friend" in Greek. Apus means "without feet". I think I can claim ownership of the first name, but the second one is the Avarists' owners' idea.
> 
> This chapter was a bit of fun to write, and I realize that I've been somewhat inconsistent with a lot of things, but I'm a very indecisive person, and honestly should've planned this story better. By the way, I did do some research on the different bloodcastes and realized how long the Untahmed would live in comparison to the Alphabet. I decided that it would be useful for us to pay attention to time more often. I actually did intend on showing how the Musician reacted to the Court of Miracles (COM) but decided it wouldn't fit in this chapter. Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, there will be more of the Aviarist and the Seafarer, don't worry. I hope you guys liked the character development as well. I thought the Untahmed deserved to grow a little.


	14. The Deed Is Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Untahmed and the Wildcard make it to Leelando, and buy several maps off of a very grumpy greenblood with a British accent. The Untahmed kills a lot more people and the Wildcard wonders why he's stuck tending to a guy who was sent out to kill them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize for taking so long to write another chapter. I got caught up in Game On, which many of you may have noticed, is not published on here yet, due to coding issues on both my part for inexperience and my matesprit's (yes, my matesprit) part. We hope to have it up on October 8th, the day after my birthday.

=> Be the tired blueblood

You were tired of a lot of things, mostly the ship. The Seafarer’s ship had indeed, been repaired while you and Ferhal were on the island, and it was back out to sea. You were not fond of the sea. There was nothing interesting to do on the ship, except talk to the Untahmed, which was a pastime you were more than willing to dedicate much of your time.

Lately, she seemed a little withdrawn. She’d asked for paper from the Seafarer, who gave her a good stack, and now she was carefully writing out letters. You weren’t sure who they were to, but you recognized the black pen she was using. A necessary hemo-neutral color. If she was allowed to, she would plaster her color everywhere she could.

Once she finished them, she gave them to her new featherbeast friend. Fílos liked to fly around the ship, annoying most of the sailors and especially; the Seafarer. During the day, he rested with both of you, keeping a watchful eye from time to time. But when he got the letters, his eyes practically glowed as he flew off, back in the direction of your old home on Kapitólio.

Ferhal sighed, crossing her arms as she leaned on the wooden railing. You took the opportunity to wrap an arm loosely around her waist. She didn’t reject it and actually leaned into your touch, so you counted that as a victory.

“So who did you send letters to?” you asked.

“Yaviin and Boriss,” she replied. Then, almost as if it was an afterthought, “And the Alphabet. Now that I have a reliable way of sending mail, I plan to use it.”

“How does he even know where he’s going?”

“Not sure. But I trust the Avairst on featherbeasts and their reliability. She’s a good troll. One of the few I trust rather early on.”

“Huh. Anyone else have that lucky position?” you cast her a sly look.

“You, surprisingly,” she replied without looking at you. “I do not normally like bluebloods. For obvious reasons. And back then, it was even stronger. So to find one that beat back all of the stereotypes I had for them; someone who was kind and generous and very, very sweet,” she finally looked up at you with an actual, genuine smile. “It was rather shocking for me. I couldn’t help but feel drawn to you, even though I didn’t want to be.”

You gave her a grin. A big one. You hoped it could convey all of your emotions. Ferhal scooted closer to you and rested her head on your shoulder. She was still smiling faintly, and you couldn’t help but feel a little proud at that. The unsmiling Untahmed had just cracked one for you. And out to the open, too.

You could live with that kind of satisfaction.

* * *

 

Leelando was not Kapitólio. It was not even close. Within seconds of stepping off the ship, you were immediately made uncomfortable by the server humidity in the air. You couldn’t tell if Ferhal felt any different, since she was in a black cloak, but you tugged your chlamys off. It was way too hot for that, and you were a goddamn blueblood. If anyone had a problem with you, you could tell most of them to fuck off.

You found work rather quickly. Ferhal did not have any connections here. But she was a very convincing person, and you both proved yourselves to be hardworking and honest. You knew most of the people you worked for didn’t like you, but you did manage to win them over a little in the end. Cracking plenty of jokes helped.

The Court of Miracles seemed delighted they could somewhat communicate with Fílos sending letters back and forth. You could tell she was calculating, trying to see ways that she could hook up the two continents underground. With a normal gaggle of trolls, it would have taken centuries, but the Court of Miracles had been built within a perigee. It was reasonable to assume those with powers like psionics and telekinesis would be able to speed up the process considerably.

And she was slowly adding people to her new list of COM members. She found them on the streets, in the alleys and as servants for highbloods. She’d subtly pay back anyone who needed a debt repaid, and then convince whoever was being mistreated to come with you. That was actually how you found out about your next target. Ferhal taught them how to be self-sufficient, the same way the Aviarist had educated Ferhal herself, and they told her about others who needed help.

The Cunningg was a blueblood, like you. You heard he was in between cerulean and indigo though, and wildly unpredictable. He kept many slaves, and you noted most of your most recent missions included busting people out. Ferhal liked to steal some of his slaves; returning them to quadrantmates or their old homes. Some appreciated what she did so much that they joined the Court of Miracles. And soon, she was building up a small colony herself.

Of course, she also compared her maps to the newer ones she was attempting to copy. In fact, that was what she was doing as you rested your head on your arms and watched her. She was rather frustrated by the whole thing. Leelando didn’t really make maps apparently. And anyone who did make them frequently died rather quickly.

You glanced up when you heard the door to the researchblock open. In strode the Seafarer. He was muttering to himself, pulling out books on the map wall, and slamming them back in with a grunt; rolling his eyes at one point. You watched him lazily, out of the corner of your eye. He seemed to be approaching you subtly. Eventually, he was leaning over Ferhal’s book, studying it himself, before grunting. You knew Ferhal had been aware of his presence, but her ear flicked at that point; a subtle sign for you to keep listening.

“Can I help you, Seafarer?” she asked, not even bothering to look up. Her tone was  _ just _ polite enough to not be considered rude, but still coldish.

“You’re not going to find anything with those bloody maps,” the Seafarer grunted. “They’re low quality. Leelando is a poor continent, unable to pay for an actual professional to come in and map their areas.”

“You speak as if you know the difference,” Ferhal replied, her voice now measured.

“I’m a sea captain,” the Seafarer retorted. “Of course I know the damn difference!”

“Am I to believe that you know how to make maps?”

The Seafarer snorted. “I make the best maps. There is no other map maker as precise as me!”

She locked her fingers together, and rested her head on them, looking up at him. “Would you be interested in selling? Or do you need to be commissioned?”

Which was how you ended up getting several maps of the continent, as well as a few more refined maps for different areas of your old home. Ferhal was deeply satisfied with the craftsmanship. Work carried on, as usual. You added a few more containers of blood to your collection and talked to Ferhal more. She seemed to be winding down with her anger. Slowly turning into someone who was a lot more calm.

That being said, there was still one more plantation to take down. One more thing to eliminate. You hoped by then, she would finally settle down. You were careful to keep your thoughts hidden from her, but she didn’t seem to notice. She always seemed preoccupied with her thoughts these days. It had you a little concerned. You couldn’t say she was normally in the present. Her revenge-sprees told you that much that she held too many grudges for that. But it was different than that now.

When Fílos returned, it was a little better. She seemed a little more focused, and you sensed her plans for the Cunningg were wrapping themselves up like a lusus’ gift on 12th Perigee's Eve. You sensed there would be fire involved. It made you grin.

And of course, when you were crouched on the outskirts of the Cunningg’s plantation, taking inventory of your resources, you were still grinning. Contrary to previous schemes, she had a small army behind her in this plan. Previous slaves, she’d stolen before insisted they wished to lend their assistance. She let them in with minimal amounts of arguing.

Everyone was well-equipped and ready to fight. You had been blessed with several fire-starters. She planned to light certain things on fire, allowing the slaves to get out with a smaller group that would conceal them in this continents Court of Miracles. Then they would be integrated into the society, and allowed to live free. Or if they didn’t want to live there, Ferhal knew people to make them papers.

On a day like this, you’d decided to do a bit of the violet paint you’d stowed away from one of your jobs. It was strange, painting your face like this. You decided to do the traditional drama sign: half your face happy and the other half sad. There was another paint you would’ve preferred, but Ferhal had written the parts you all had to play. The show would not be complete without her jester, and as far as you were concerned, the queen would have her final laugh.

And of course, the others found your appearance mildly threatening. A few of the older recruits had become used to you, but even they seemed a bit nervous. You’d woven most of the bones you had into your hair. Most of them were from creatures you’d killed for food, but there were a few troll teeth in the mix. You were eager to begin, testing your axes’ sharpness, and practicing your swings.

Ferhal was adding some last minute plans to her journal, and conversing with the leaders of each group she’d made, but she smiled at you from time to time. You knew that once she put the journal away, it was time. It was sun high when you finally snuck in there. The slaves had painted their doors with white chalk, and you tapped on each one; lightly, so they would escape unscathed. They would be protected. When the first group emerged and saw you, they almost shrieked in alarm, but you put your finger to your lips and shushed them. They quieted down, though eyed you suspiciously.

Each and every slave hut was emptied, and when each one was empty, you set it on fire. You were through with five fire-starters before you came to the hired-help section. They were primarily midbloods, but a few highbloods were thrown in there. Ferhal, at this point, knew everything that everyone had done on this property, so a select few midbloods were blindfolded and awoken to be sent to town safely.

Of course, once some of the hives were set on fire, then the screaming started. You had to move quickly then. Ferhal had refused to hide her horns this time around, so they stood tall and proud, out in the open for everyone to see. Of course, when they lacked a head, it was kind of hard to see them.

Ferhal discovered one hive had an underground room, and what you found sickened you. A massive highblood sat there. He was hunched over and filthy from what you could see and smell. He had massive, twisted horns and an ugly, scarred face. He was chained so heavily that he looked as if he could barely move. His eyes glinted a dangerous orange when you came down the stairs.

“So,” he rumbled. “Have you come to finally kill me?”

“Why would you think that?” Ferhal asked, never taking her eyes off of him.

“Got your motherfucking weapons out,” he shrugged. “Figured you might be up and motherfucking taking me out finally. The Master got upset ‘bout how I ripped two o’ his boys' horns clean off?”

“I do not belong to anyone, so I am not about to kill you,” she retorted. Ferhal smoothed her face though, and effort to calm down. “What’s your name?”

“Some called me the ‘Deranged’, but I think I prefer the ‘Maniacal,” the massive purpleblood replied. “If you’re not gonna kill me, then what the motherfuck do you want.”

“To free you,” Ferhal replied.

The Maniacal laughed. “And why the motherfuck do you wanna do that? Do you even know what I’ve done, motherfucker?”

“Your past sins don’t denote anything like this. Even if you are a highblood.”

“I decided to kill one of my brothers,” the Maniacal replied. “Because he motherfucking touched my matesprit.”

“Then that is no reason to be treated like this,” Ferhal stepped forward. “May I remove your chains, brother?”

The Maniacal eyed her. Then heaved a great sigh. “Might as well, motherfucker. I ain’t gonna be leaving so soon though. I got a few motherfuckers who’re 'bout to feel my righteous rage, little sister.”

“Then let your rage flow, brother,” she replied, kneeling forward to remove the chains with a small scrap of metal. The locks clicked open ominously. “It’s not my place to tell you not to let it all go.”

The Maniacal grinned. His fangs were long and sharp. He was only a bit bigger than you, but you could see why he’d be terrifying. “Much obliged, little sis. Now let me get my painting on.”

Once you were out of that cramped, dark and dirty room, the Maniacal laughed. It sounded much more sinister than one would think, and he continued grinning his massive grin as he took out his spiked juggling pins.

“I up and MOTHERFUCKING WARNED ALL YOU MOTHERFUCKERS,” he bellowed. “That someday. SOME MOTHERFUCKING DAY. I’d find some sister with RIGHTEOUS BLOOD OFF THE SPECTRUM. And that motherfucker. AND THAT GLORIOUS MOTHERFUCKING MIRACLE. Would up and save my sorry clown ass. DO YOU HEAR ME, YOU BLUE-MOTHERFUCKER? YOUR RULING HAS COME TO AN END. the motherfucking end is nearing. AND I SURE AS MOTHERFUCKING KNOW that any descendant of mine WILL SURVIVE MORE THAN YOUR FILTH-RIDDEN SLURRY EVER WILL!”

A tealblood rushed up to attack him, but the Maniacal just laughed and swung his clubs. Soon, teal was added to the sharp spikes.

If he weren’t on your side, you were certain that you would’ve been terrified of him, but as it was, you were immensely glad for his assistance. Ferhal--even as cold and as ruthless as she usually was--could not help but smile a small smile every now and then when another troll lost his head or had his body bashed to a pulp by your new, giant friend. You were thankful that your people had white ribbons on their arms, as a sign that they were friend, not foe. The Maniacal picked up on this pretty quick and left them alone.

When the Cunningg himself rushed into the action of blazing flames and screams, he seemed lost, as if he never expected this. Ferhal left him alone for the most part, but once you set his own hive on fire, you knew the action would finally take place. So you did. It was high time he died anyways.

Three of you circled him. The Maniacal’s eyes had become blood red in his rage, but the purple irises still shone clear and bright; clearly, his presence even upset the Cunningg more fluently. Ferhal, on the other hand, had her pupils as pricked as they’d ever been. She was savoring the moment, relishing the last task she had before she’d finally be free of all of them. And you? You were grinning. You knew your eyes were doing that weird thing, but you didn’t mind.

“Who are you?” the Cunningg spat, finally focusing on Ferhal. She drew herself up, throwing her hood back.

“I am the Untahmed,” she announced. “Mutant to the spectrum, bringer of death and your demise. Any last words before we destroy the last of your kind? I know bluebloods enjoy being dramatic.”

“The Empresses will find you,” he assured her. “And when they do-”

“I asked for last  _ words _ , pail-brain, not a gogdamn testimony,” Ferhal interrupted.

The Cunningg seemed to have a loss for words. So did you, actually.

“I hope you rot when you reach hell,” he managed after several long minutes.

Ferhal rolled her eyes, but pulled a dagger out of her cloak and stabbed his chest. She only just managed to puncture his air sac, but it was enough for immense pain. You did the same, but with your own lungs. She nodded towards the Maniacal, who couldn’t have possibly known what to do, but the huge highblood laughed and smashed one of his clubs down on the Cunningg’s chest. He would suffocate on his own blood.

Ferhal’s eyes became a little more normal. She nodded towards the Maniacal. “Ensure no one survives.”

He grinned and wandered off, continuing to laugh his horrible laugh. Then she turned to you. “Burn this place to the ground. I want to see nothing but ashes when you’re done,”

And then she walked away, her cloak billowing behind her, her hair just managing to peek out from underneath it all.

* * *

 

It was all over the news. No one had survived, but there were corpses everywhere, and a team had been dispatched to see if they could hunt down whoever had done it. It was a small team. Ferhal watched all of this from underneath her hood, sipping a mug of grub juice as you rested in a tavern for awhile. You were enjoying a bit of grubloaf yourself, marveling over what you’d done.

Of course, you’d washed off the paint, but the Maniacal had smacked you on the back and congratulated you for embodying both Jakeyl the Just and Jackyl the Wicked at the same time. You hadn’t even realized it, but you had felt two spirits embodying you through the entire mess. You’d forgotten much of what the Church had in it, but you remembered Jakeyl and Jackyl were very important.

The Maniacal had decided to stay with you. Back in the Court of Miracles, of course. He said something about “I need to park my ass where the Harbinger is, cause those who stay under the Harbinger are gonna make it outta this mess alright” and a few other things that hadn’t made any sense to you at all.

Ferhal got up to return to camp, and you followed. You decided she’d had enough of being in public. Once you returned to camp, she seemed a bit...off. You weren’t sure what was up, but you knew she’d tell you in due time.

Sure enough, once you settled down on the hides you shared, she began talking.

“Now that I’ve completed my goal, I just...don't know what to do with myself,” she was saying. “My entire life has been dedicated towards getting justice for those who need it. And for myself. Without that goal, I’m not sure what I should do.”

“Well,” you replied, tracing a heart shape onto her shoulder. “Perhaps you can continue working for the people. Doing what you do. Refine the Court of Miracles. Teach more people. Discover new things. You don’t have to stop just because you completed one goal. You can keep going.”

“But Zan, I enjoy doing big things like this,” she countered. “The essence of planning it all. Seeing it all fall into place. How am I supposed to do that?”

“There’s always the Empresses,” you teased, but you weren’t being serious. “I think you should be more concerned with getting caught. You’ve got a hit list a mile long, and it’s not going to help the Court if you get caught.”

“I’m not going to get caught,” she dismissed.

“Even so, we’ve got two people after us now. Strictly after us. Empress Knhitter isn’t too happy with what we’ve been doing.”

“I don’t care,” she replied. “The Knhitter is no match for me.”

You decided not to press it. She was making plans to return to your continent within two perigees. Lowblood psychics were in the process of using their telekinesis powers to make more tunnels, meeting up with the ones that the main cave system had been digging since your departure. The Maniacal was assisting with his great strength. You had no doubt the tunnel would be completed soon with his assistance.

The next morning, you found Ferhal talking to one of her contacts. It was one of those rare nights you actually got to meet one of them. As it turned out, the cobaltblooded fellow was called the Assassin, and he was rather friendly, despite his collection of firearms and sharp objects on his person.

“So what brings you here, Assassin?” Ferhal asked him.

“A warning. Another cobalt and violet are headed this way, seekin’ to kill you. Empress Knhitter sent them. You should feel lucky the Empress hasn’t sent out her favorite pet yet. I suspect she will soon though,” the Assassin replied.

“Who’s her pet?”

“Yet another cobalt. Called the Saregent. Pretty fierce fellow, he rose to the second-in-command mark. Though I bet if I were up against him, I’d win.”

“You don’t play fair, Assassin,” Ferhal smiled a little.

“Hell no, I don’t. Fighting fair doesn’t put dinner on the table. By the way, are you going to introduce me to Big Blue, or am I going to have to guess his relations?”

“This is my partner in crime, the Wildcard,” Ferhal replied. “Matesprit and Kismesis.”

The Assassin nodded.

“So who’s after me specifically?”

“You’re lucky I like you,’ the Assassin grumbled. “Cobalt is called the Detective. Fairly intelligent fellow, he’s a legislator. Has weak psychic powers. He can read minds. Which makes him perfect for this job.”

“The Untahmed has a tight-lidded mind,” you interjected. “I have some weak chucklevoodoos, and while they can definitely drive a burgundy to madness, they can’t get a hit on her.”

“Oh, I know she’s a tealblood mutant,” the Assassin waved his hand in the air dismissively. “Most can get a crack on teal though. Even you should be able to. But it’s a good thing if no one can get inside your mind.”

“And the other?” Ferhal pressed.

“Ol’ violet has two titles. The Uneqqual Flatfoot. I’m just calling him ‘Flatfoot’. One of the best trackers on the planet. He’s cold, calculating and efficient. Also, has flat feet. He’s good at what he does, and I would  _ not _ want to meet his acquaintance. He only get’s dispatched on tougher cases, like this one. He’s pretty young--only one hundred sweeps or so--but he’s still a hardass.”

“What’s his strife?” Ferhal asked, poking at some of the meat she had roasting over a fire.

“Not one-hundred percent sure. Might be in the gun range. Pretty sure it’s riflekind. Watch yourself, he’s a pretty good shot.”

Ferhal hummed thoughtfully and pulled a piece out for you. Then she handed another to the Assassin. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to accompany us and perhaps throw off their scent?”

“Hell no. I’ll join your Court when it gets set up here, but I kill people. I don’t lure them away unless it's for a good few coins. You know that. Besides, there’s only so much old favors can buy you in a world like this. Only the Empresses have complete and total control and safety.”

Ferhal nodded, taking a bite of her own food. She chewed slowly; thinking before she swallowed.

“Thank you for the warning, Assassin. I’ll be sure to send Fílos to you when the tunnel is built.”

“Glad to hear it. Take care of yourself, you hear? It’d be a shame to see someone like you die a dumb death.” he replied and disappeared with the meat she’d given him.

“So what’s the plan?” you asked after awhile.

“I want to capture one of them,” she replied. “Whichever seems more open. We could use a spy on the inside.”

“Something tells me this converting mission of yours is not going to go well,” you said in a warning tone.

“Who knows? My plans have worked well thus far.” she pointed out.

You were thrust back into your semi-nomadic lifestyle; taking up jobs here and there, and helping people out. Adding to your numbers. But you noticed everything was being done a bit more carefully. Ferhal put more effort into making her work look sloppy, and then making it look pristine. While you were in the area, she took to using one of her daggers, to make each wound look the same.

Meanwhile, the tunnel grew closer and closer to the newer base. You were eager for it to be finished as well, for that would mean the two continents were connected. Ferhal seemed to be picking up on new, stranger tracks. Things that Flatfoot hadn’t hidden and the Detective had missed during their stalking. And one night, you decided to take on a caravan.

Caravans were typically those of subjugglators who were doing their clown things and making paint. They traveled. And you remembered how bad the conditions were for anyone who wasn’t a brother or sister. Ferhal was retrieving several quadrantmates from their clutches, planning to let the others go or come with you to the Court. The highbloods would all die, of course.

She convinced you to tie her loosely with a rope, and she would pretend to be your slave. It left a sick taste in your mouth, but she did as you said, and led her to the camp where the subjuggalos showed their interest.

“Whatchu got there, brother?” one of them said, walking forward.

You saw the flash of the smile before he did, as his head was promptly severed from his body. At once, chaos erupted into the area. Clowns grabbed their weapons and raced towards you, but several fell to pieces as Ferhal swept a wide, protective circle around you. You threw your ax at one and it lodged into his face.

You noticed, out of the corner of your eye, a seadweller readying his rifle and a cerulean looking rather blue in the face as he attempted to use his powers on you. You suspected that was the Flatfoot and the Detective. But you ignored them. They could be taken care of later, you were busy with a bunch of faces painted with designs anyway.

The leader of the caravan came out from his tent, and upon realizing what was going on, he roared. The Detective seemed anxious to get you to stop, and there was this annoying prickly feeling at the back of your head, so you threw an axe at his chest, and killed him. You grinned a little when the axe came flying back to your hand.

And then you were preoccupied again as more highbloods attempted to defend their caravan leader. Ferhal was attacking him with leisure. She felt absolutely no need to rush, and you could understand why.

Out of nowhere, you saw the seadweller charge into combat, you prepared to hurl another axe, but to your immense surprise and confusion, he assisted your matesprit. She didn’t seem to be thrown off at all, but let him fight the caravan leader, assisting you with the others, and taking them out one by one.

You heard a gurgled cry and spun around to see the seadweller had been caught in his neck gills by the highbloods claws. Ferhal sprung to his aid, grabbing him by one hand, and giving a haphazard slice to the highblood before she carefully let him lay on the ground and dropped her scythes beside him. You split the final highbloods skull with your ax and watched her with interest.

She dodged him nimbly, using her entire body and moving like a wild roarbeast. She kept dodging him until she managed to leap upon his back, sinking her teeth into his neck. She tightened his grip when he continued to move. With a mighty tug, of her head, and a horrible ripping sound, the subjuggalos head came off. As the massive troll began to fall over, she leaped off and dropped the head, her mouth stained purple from his blood.

Ferhal stood up after a few minutes. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and approached the seadweller, who had apparently passed out.

“Take him back to camp and try to stop the bleeding,” she instructed. “Ensure he doesn’t drown in his own blood, either. I’m going to find a mediculler.”

You were tempted to remind her that medicullers frequently culled their patients instead of healing them, but she disappeared before you could. You picked the seatroll up, grumbling a bit, as you picked your way over the numerous amounts of dead bodies spread around. You helped the lowbloods before leaving, taking them with you, and instructed them not to make a sound.

If you hadn’t been so tired, then perhaps you would’ve asked her why she had recognition in her eyes when she finally looked at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I apologize for taking so long. I decided to start working on my book again a little, but hopefully, this will be done soon. Prepare for a chapter 15 flying your way at some point.


	15. An Abundance of Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think the chapter title sums it up pretty well.
> 
> ...I'm sorry about that by the way.

=> Be the vaguely annoyed mutant

“Vaguely annoyed” doesn’t even begin to cover it all. You are having difficulty finding a mediculler. A decent one. Apparently, Leelando doesn’t have any. The Seafarer directed you to a cerulean's hive. She was primarily a crafter, but he believed she could help you. So now you were wandering around in the jungle, searching for this troll.

Fortunately, you found the river he’d described, and shortly after, the hive popped into existence. It was large enough to meet the typical standards of cobalts but decorated with designs that might have changed over the sweeps. Currently, it was shades of blue, resembling that of a mural of wind.

You knocked on the door, and thankfully, your knock was answered promptly. The troll standing before you was short, with hair shorter than your own, and careful eyes. She had freckles too and wore a paint-stained apron over her clothes. Colors stained her darkened hands. She must have been older than you.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I hope so,” you replied. “An acquaintance of mine says you know how to heal cuts?”

“Depends on the wound,” she began to look you over.

You shook your head. “Not me. Someone else. May I take you to him?”

She hesitated but shrugged. “Sure. Just let me remove my smock. I don’t want to get blood on this one.”

She disappeared back inside and returned with a different apron that had different blood colors on it. They were faded, as if it’d been washed a thousand times over, but still present. She followed you back, and you were surprised that she kept up so well. You found one of your extra pelts had been donated to the cause of keeping the Flatfoot alive, which didn’t bother you that much. Zanaro had done an okay job at ensuring he didn’t bleed out, but there was still a lot of blood everywhere.

The cobaltblood’s hand covered her mouth. “Oh, my. I wasn’t aware it was on a seadweller.”

“Normally, I wouldn’t even bother, but I have a debt to repay,” you replied. “So he’s not dying if I can help it.”

“Very well then. Do you have anything to treat infection?”

You checked your sylladex. You had some herbs left over from Kapitólio, that you handed to her. She looked at you skeptically.

“They work fine from where I’m from!” you insisted, and she relented.

She uncapchalogged mortar and pestle, and mashed the leaves into a pulp in a small bowl-like object, scraping it into a loose cloth bandage that she tucked just inside his wound. She took a few other things out, spreading a salve around the wound and finally wrapping a thicker cloth around his neck gently.

“Change the bandages when they start to become too heavy with blood,” she instructed. She handed you a jar of whatever she’d spread on the wound. “Put this on there before then. And try to make another bundle of those herbs for another week to ensure no infection sets in.”

“Thank you,” you replied.

“You’re welcome. Come back to me when it stops bleeding. I’ll see if I can patch the gills back together.”

“I shall be in your debt,” you realized you didn’t know her name. “What shall I call you?”

“The Artifcer,” she stood up to go. “Let me know if anything changes. And do be careful.”

You let her leave without another word. You sighed, rubbing at your eyes. Zanaro wrapped his arms around you loosely.

“All this work for a seadweller?” he asked.

“He was there, at the plantation,” you replied. “I thought he was dead. He helped me, now I help him. Simple as that.”

“But a _seadweller_?” Zanaro pressed.

“Everyone deserves to have a second chance, especially if they decided to help,” you countered.

The sky was beginning to lighten before Zanaro finally let it go with a rueful smile. “You’ve grown,” he said, as he gently led you to your own pelt to sleep for the night.

The next morning, you watched as the seadweller slowly woke up. You had a fire going for food. You planned on feeding him soup until he got better. You weren’t sure how the anatomy of a seadweller worked, but you knew they had gills on their necks and their waists. They seemed rather important.

The violetbloods eyes fluttered open, and he attempted to sit up, but you pushed on his chest, effectively making him lay back down. He looked up to see you staring at him. You were about a foot away from his face.

“What the-” he attempted to get up again, only to be pushed back down. He groaned in pain.

“Stay down, you idiot!” You hissed. Your accent slipped out in your mild frustration. “You’ll open up your damn cut again if you move around like that. My friend just left, she can’t heal you if you decide to move around like a pan-rotted moron.”

He bit his lip and glared at you. You glared right back. You grabbed a gourd from where it rested on your own pelt, and poured a little on a fresh rag, and prodded gently at the wound. Though he made no sound of pain, the cloth came away with a patch of watered down violet. You hid your frown from him.

“Would you like to eat something?” you asked.

He nodded a little. You turned to the pot on the fire, and spooned some soup into a wooden bowl, settling back next to him as you moved his head from the pelt to your leg. Theoretically, it would help him swallow better. And sure enough, it did. He gulped at the soup greedily, not even acting ashamed as you dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a spare cloth.

When Zanaro returned with fresh meat, however, then he regained his wits.

“You’re the one who killed the Detective!” he sputtered, spilling more soup than usual. You rolled your eyes a little, cleaning it up gently. Zanaro shrugged as he sat down, skinning the antlerbeast.

“Guess I am,” he replied.

“How dare you act as if you are greater than the Empire; the Empresses themselves when you help _this_ hellspawn-”

“I did not need to help you,” you interrupted. “I could’ve let you bleed out. I could have let that highblood kill you. I could’ve killed you myself. You are alive because you chose to disobey your own orders and assist me. You didn’t have to help me. You _chose_ to.”

“And what was the point of killing that cerulean?” he retorted.

“He was attempting to hurt her,” Zanaro replied. “He wasn’t succeeding, but I figured he’d try culling her when he realized that was ineffective.”

“You’re both renowned criminals!” the Flatfoot replied.

“Isn’t everyone?” you countered.

The Flatfoot seemed to be struggling against something, but he eventually gave up.

“You know the Empire wouldn’t give a shit if you’d gotten this injured,” you told him. “They would’ve taken one look at you and tossed you out the window. Maybe if you were one of the Designer’s trolls, she would’ve tried, but the Knhitter is as cold and ruthless as her blood dictates she must be.”

The seadweller was silent. You decided to change his bandages. After all, they were quite soaked now. You set the soup aside, and gently place his head on the hide again. You carefully unwound the bandages and pulled the bundle of herbs out. The herbs were still quite good, so all you did was wrap them in fresh threadbare bandages and rub more of the ointment on his wound. He shuddered a little, his face flushing violet.

“That’s practically a violation of my rights,” he muttered.

“Oh, grow up. I’m tending to your wounds, you overgrown wriggler.” you snapped.

He growled a little but silenced himself when you snapped your teeth. You placed the bundle of herbs in the wound, rewrapping it with clean bandages. You got up, taking the dirty bandages with you. There was a stream nearby, and you planned on reusing the bandages if you could. Of course, you could hear some terse conversation between the seadweller and your matesprit, but you ignored it.

When you returned, they were glaring at each other. You left the damp bandages on a rock to dry and sat back down next to your guest.

“Why bother helping me then, if the bloody Empire wouldn’t help me,” he muttered.

“‘Cause she practically has a pitch relationship with it,” Zanaro chimed in.

“Just because the Empire is full of utter bullshit doesn’t mean I have to be full of it too,” you added.

It was silent except for Zanaro’s skinning. Flatfoot looked as if he wanted to say something. So you waited.

“Do you even have titles?” he asked.

“Of course we do,” you replied, somewhat clipped. “Are you inquiring because you genuinely wish to know? Or because once this is over, you plan to turn us in?”

He was quiet. You didn’t bother speaking to him. He’d talk when he was ready. Instead, you took the hide from Zanaro and began to prepare it to be made into something else.

“Do you prefer Flatfoot or Uneqqual?” you asked.

Your guest blinked. “What?”

“Since we’re on the subject of titles,”

“I prefer Uneqqual.”

“To inflate your ego further?” Zanaro snarked.

You shot him a look. Zanaro wilted a little under your gaze.

“I suppose. It’s always seemed more impressive than being called ‘Flatfoot’. I wasn’t even called Flatfoot for my tracking abilities. It was always cause of my mutation.”

“Flat feet?”

He nodded.

“It’s not that big of a deal. Not even a hindrance. Not like how they see mine.”

“Obviously not. I can still walk just fine. But it’s always felt more like a title that was thrust unwillingly upon me.”

“Very well then. We shall address you as the Uneqqual then,” you replied.

There was yet more silence.

“I...did want to know your titles, so I wouldn’t have to keep referring to you as rather unflattering names in my head,” the Uneqqual admitted. “Didn’t really cross my mind to use it against you. You’re probably not logged into the records, are you?”

You weren’t one hundred percent sure of that. You knew they knew somewhat of your existence, or else you wouldn’t be required to hand over a bucket every perigee. But other than that, you were left alone. No one seemed to know who you were, and you liked it that way.

So you shrugged. “I’m called the Untahmed,”

“The Wildcard,” Zanaro supplied, going back to his job.

“A bit unconventional with names,” the Uneqqual replied mildly.

“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but we’re unconventional people,” you replied, smirking a little. You returned to your own work. The Uneqqual seemed to be watching you, and the silence was a bit irritating where there had been chatter before the Uneqqual’s company. You weren’t about to discuss new plans with Zanaro with him around, of course. You were attempting to change, but you were not about to ruin your life for one possible seadweller ally. You didn’t really even want to look at him that much, but you had to, in order to ensure he wasn’t trying anything.

Fortunately, Fílos decided that was the perfect moment to return with your mail. There were the customary reports from Keekan, as well others who were heading the maintenance on the super tunnel to Leelando. But one letter stuck out above them all. Perhaps because it was addressed with your hatchname, and there were only four people who knew your hatchname and had permission to use it.

You set the other letters aside, and opened the letter-holder with a single claw, pulling the paper out.

_Ferhal,_

_II apollogiize to be wriiting to you, but one of us had to say iit, and we diidn’t want to fliip a coiin, so II diid. The Alphabet diied yesterday. She was slleepiing when her fiinal breath lleft her. Boriis went to check up on her to see how she was doing, and found her. He said he could find nothiing to suggest foull play, so iif you want to take out any anger, you miight want to take iit out on Death iitsellf, but II suppose you’ve sort of iimpersonated that yoursellf, huh?_

_We plan on holldiing a deathday party wiithiin a week. That’s how llong we can keep her iin our iice compartment, as morbiid as that sounds. II do hope you and Zanaro can make iit. We know you wanted to eventually conviince her to move down to the Court, but never got the chance._

_She truly diid care for you, you know? She allways remiinded me of a llusus, except a llot more cariing and lless lliikelly to drag iin dead creatures lliike a massiive purrbeast. II’m goiing to miiss haviing tea wiith her. She was a llovelly llady._

_Thiings around here aren’t goiing so well. Securiity iis at a maxiimum, and Boriis and II are gettiing calllled iin for questiioniing by the guards for “consortiing wiith strange people”. Empress Knhiiter iis enraged. Apparentlly, the two peoplle whom were sent out to track the kiillllers of the Cunniing have diisappeared. The cerulean named the Detectiiv, was found dead at a completely demollished caravan. II’m guessiing you’re probably to blame for that._

_Whatever you’re doiing, II hope you come back soon, and keep safe. LLeellando iisn’t goiing to be safe forever, and the rest of the gogdamn planet iis on hiigh alert. Keep safe, you two. Don’t be iidiiots._

__- **Yaviin Alders**_ _

 

You felt the shock run through your body. For the first time in a long time, tears actually pricked your eyes. Zanaro looked up from his work and saw you shaking. His eyes widened, and he moved over to you, wrapping his arms around you comfortingly. You carefully placed the letter back in its protective covering before returning his hug.

The Uneqqual seemed a bit surprised, but he didn’t make any comment as you allowed silent sobs to wrack your body. You weren’t sure if you were going to make the deathday party. After all, it had taken almost an entire perigee to get to Leelando. Not counting the time you were stuck on Paradise, trying to gain the Aviarists favor.

While you remained wrapped up in Zanaro’s arms, you heard footsteps approaching you. Zanaro didn’t tense, so you guessed it must have been friend instead of foe. Sure enough, you heard the familiar tones of the half-insane subjuggalo who answered to you.

“Hi motherfuckers, I got some news from the Court that y’all might be interested in hearing, but if now’s not a good time, I’ll hold off on it,” the Maniacal was pretty cheerful, despite his slightly sinister voice.

“Yeah, right now might not be the best time, Maniacal-” Zanaro was saying, but you pushed yourself away from his chest.

“No, I want to hear what it is,”

If the Maniacal took any note of your tear-stained face, he didn’t show it. “We just made contact with the other branch! The tunnel is complete. We plan on moving some people over there to motherfucking populate the place since you got that law up about not wastin’ any space.”

The gears in your thinkpan began to turn. “It’s completely finished?”

The Maniacal nodded. “I spoke to a troll who called himself Sweeper Keekan. He motherfucking introduced himself and confirmed they were up and part of the Court.”

Using the back of your hand, you wiped the tears off of your face. You straightened yourself up considerably and brushed the dirt off of your clothes.

Clearing your throat, you began to gather up some things. “Maniacal,” you commanded your voice back to being firm and in control. “Blindfold this seadweller and take him down to the Court. You’re to take care of him. You are not permitted to turn him into paint unless he attempts to commit treason.”

The Maniacal gave a small bow. “Of course, most righteous sister.”

“Zanaro, we’ll discuss what I need you to do. Let’s clean up this camp."

* * *

 

“I think you should stay here,” you murmured to Zanaro. You were residing just outside of the new tunnel, going over your much-improvised plans. They weren’t as carefully crafted as you usually managed, but they would have to do, considering the circumstances. “We need someone who knows what they’re doing to manage the Court while I’m gone. As second in command, I trust you to do the best job.”

“Not that I’m not honored you’ve chosen me,” Zanaro replied, his voice low. “But I want to be there for you, in case you need me.”

You bit your lip. It wouldn’t be bad having him there. You’d have a shoulder you could cry on, even though you’d cried far too much already, in your opinion. You needed a few nights to stand on your own, to see you could still do it. Even though Zanaro would outlive you, there was still the chance he would fall on the job. You wanted to make sure you could do your job alone, even though the likelihood of him dying wasn’t very large.

“I appreciate your concern, but I need to be able to do this alone,” you said tersely. You realized with growing alarm that your vision spheres felt hot again.

Zanaro pressed his thumbs into your face, gently wiping the tears off. They were refreshingly cool against your face. “I understand,” he said softly and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Just be safe, okay? And remember all of the things Sweeper Keekan told you about hidden entrances.”

“He plans to look out for me anyway,” you assured him. “I’ll be fine. I handled myself well for sweeps before you joined me.”

“I understand that,” Zanaro moved back a little to cup your face, smiling a little. “But that doesn’t mean you have to face the world alone.”

You finally stepped back but allowed him to continue holding your hand. You gave him one last kiss goodbye and then joined Sweeper Keekan down the Tunnel. It was a quiet, solemn walk. The normally conversational oliveblood had been silenced, and you were in no mood to inquire why.

When you finally reached the original hub of the Court; the place they’d begun referring to as the Court Capital, you were led down more winding paths to another entrance they’d built. An entrance by the Alphabet’s hive.

“We have enough coin to purchase the land the Alphabet owned, your Highness,” Keekan offered as you fastened the clasp on your cloak. “We have more than enough, actually.”

“See to it that we dispatch someone with either a very good disguise or isn’t a wanted criminal,” you ordered, sweeping the hood of the cloak onto your head. “Put it under Zanaro’s name. We’ll later fix the dealings of it, but he’s high enough and not known about.”

“With all due respect, your grace, Lord Zanaro is a known criminal, such as yourself. He is wanted by the subjugglators, who would not hesitate to kill him, should the deed be under his name.”

“Then put it under someone else's,” you replied, exasperated. “Just make sure it's someone high enough that they won’t make a fuss. And make sure they’re someone who can disappear.”

Keekan bowed. “Of course, my Queen.”

You sighed, leaning against the tunnel wall. Keekan seemed to be struggling with something, but you didn’t allow him to speak. Instead, you managed a smile and clasped him on the shoulder with a gentle hand. “I thank you for your attentiveness, Sweeper Keekan. You are a hardworking and loyal troll.”

His face turned a little olive. “You flatter me, my Queen. I just do what I think is best.”

“Then your think-pan is in the right place. I rest easy, knowing you’re on the job. Do make sure Lord Zanaro doesn’t get too frazzled, will you?”

Keekan smiled. “I will try my best, my Queen.”

You patted his head a little. Enough to not be considered unaffectionate, but not enough to be considered a quadrant advancement. And with a mighty sweep of your cloak, you exited into the upper world.

* * *

 

“Quick, get inside!” Yaviin ushered you inside, quickly closing the door behind you.

“Quite the rush,” you commented, throwing your hood back. You’d never been inside the hive he shared with Boriss, but it was half neat and half messy, with random metal scraps lying everywhere, as well as a few spare wires.

“We’ve been under intense questioning. They’re calling us in again tomorrow for some more. So far, we’ve answered them all correctly, but there’s only so much we can do.” Boriss’ voice replied as the shorter troll emerged from the entertainmentblock.

“I understand,” you replied, your hands finding their way to your elbows, where they cupped them. “If you wish, we can move you underground this morning, to ensure your safety.”

Yaviin sighed, sitting down on a chair. “I don’t want to leave,” he confessed. “But it’s getting too dangerous to do anything.”

“Where’s her body?” you asked, deciding to change the subject.

“Still in the ice compartment,” Boriss replied. “We were hoping you knew a place to bury her.”

“Of course I do,” you replied. “Just let me figure out how to get her out.”

You studied the hive for a moment, calculating just how much security you’d seen in the town when you’d arrived, and quickly formulated an escape route.

“We only have one shot to do this,” you said. Your hand reached out for a piece of paper, and Yaviin slid one to you; Boriss arming you with a pencil. You quickly sketched out a map on the paper. It was rough, and nothing like the smooth lines of the Seafarer, but it would do. You relied on your memory, drawing squares for the houses and lines for other things.

Finally, you circled the large tree-shape that was across the Olueer River.

“The Alphabet’s favorite spot to read was the Big Tree I found when I was a little over four sweeps old,” you recalled. “There were stepping stones that were revealed during the dry season, and she liked to walk across those. Right now, it’s the falling season, so the rocks could be revealed and also could not be. But a tree nearby there fell down when I was six, and I secured it to the rocks very carefully. If the rope held, we should have a somewhat unsteady bridge. Once we bury her, I suggest we run back to where her hive is, and get the hell out of here, before the guards wonder where we went.”

Boriss was nodding, but Yaviin looked troubled. “How will we go underground? I thought the Court’s entrance was miles away.”

“Not at all. We’ve been making tunnels to and fro to ensure we have other routes. We just recently finished a tunnel that leads from Kapitólio to Leelando. We’re expanding.”

“How did you do that?”

“Most of us are psionics. Telekinetics. Those who could help with their powers did help. Those who couldn’t, lent their labor in other ways. We’re almost completely self-sufficient.”

Yaviin looked mildly fascinated. Boriss looked eager.

“I’d recommend packing any and all items you hold dear into your sylladex. Because we’re not coming back.”

Boriss nodded, and gently took Yaviin’s hand, walking him to their respiteblock so they could pack. You studied the map a bit more. It had to work.

Before long, you found yourself with a dead body in your sylladex, and two warmbloods trailing after you. You managed to make it to the Big Tree without a fuss. You buried her beneath it without a word, allowing a few tears to hit the ground before you wiped your face clean of them, and began leading Boriss and Yaviin back to the entrance you had used.

But almost immediately, things began to go wrong as you heard the shouts of trolls in armor running after you.

“It’s the guards, they must have searched the house and seen our prints!” Yaviin cried.

You bit back a curse. You couldn’t conceal your friends with that many feet after you. They’d try to pinch you off if you weren’t careful. So you encouraged them to run ahead and told them the sign to look for. They looked at you fearfully but bolted. Boriss had a determined look on his face as he ran, his pack full of extra things wobbling dangerously. He had seen this all before, you realized.

Meanwhile, you turned around with a vicious snarl and greeted the soldiers who were chasing after you with a swift slice of a scythe. Several heads rolled as shouts began. They varied, but one thing was certain: they were excited to have finally found the mass murder who had been terrorizing Alternia for sweeps now.

You didn’t particularly feel like killing them all. After all, you were still weighted down with grief, so you simply used your old evade and defend tactics, eventually managing to lose them as you slipped behind the ivy covered rock that served as a door for the Court entrance. You listened to them from a crack, realizing that they had probably seen your face, and you cursed yourself quietly, though you were quick to move away, and roll the second boulder in front. The precautionary door, as Keekan had called it. They made no move to move the first rock, but one could never be too careful. When the voices and footsteps finally disappeared, you let out a breath you weren’t aware you were holding.

Boriss and Yaviin’s faces emerged from the darkness, looking solemnly at you.

“Welcome to the Court of Miracles,” you managed before your legs gave out and you fell into concerned arms.

* * *

 

When you opened your eyes, you found yourself in the mediculler station. Unlike most medicullers, yours did not kill with medicine but instead tended to one another. The sheets were white and pristine. You found yourself feeling quite chilly, only clothed in the gown they gave to their patients. Your hair was devoid of anything. Even your hair tie had been confiscated.

At first, you felt a brief flash of panic, jolting up, but a large, cold hand pushed on your chest and settled you down. You followed the arm up to Zanaro’s concerned; but relaxed face.

“Easy there babe, you’ll tear a stitch,” he told you.

“Stitch?” you were confused.

“Yeah,” Zanaro sat down next to you, his hip and lower back pressing into your waist. “You actually got a few wounds this time around. Pretty bad ones. Boriss and Yaviin brought you back here and we got you stitched up. Can’t do anything major for a few weeks.”

You folded your hands on top of your lap, frowning. “And what does that imply?”

“Several things. Unfortunately, nothing you and I particularly enjoy, other than perhaps some mild cuddling, but I don’t mind.”

“I suspect you’re implying we don’t get to gift each other with severed heads,” you said dryly, but you could feel a small smile lingering on your face.

“Of course,” Zanaro replied, grinning a bit. “That’s definitely what I meant.”

“Status with the Court?” you inquired.

“A-okay. Boriss decided to start teaching anyone who was interested, the basics of metalworking. Yaviin is providing the psionics with ways to create power so we don’t just use candles,”

“Is the Tunnel working out okay?”

“Yup. We’re setting up a small amount of residency in it, adding more support beams. Some of the people from Leelando are moving in over here for awhile. Their systems are beginning to fledge. Sweeper Keekan is training their Sweepers.,”

“And the Surface?” you pressed.

Zanaro’s smile began to fade. “Empress Knhitter had guards report back to her. They described a terrifying mutant, a troll with highblood level strength, pinprick pupils, a nick on her right ear, wearing a black cloak and wielding two scythes. Though her sign could not be seen, they now have a description of who to look out for. The Empire is searching for her as we speak,”

You sighed. “I knew this would happen,” you said softly. “The rules of the game are simple: don’t get attached to anyone and you can do just fine. Attachments are dangerous. Like now.”

“You helped Boriss and Yaviin though,” Zanaro pointed out. “You’ve built quite the little kingdom down here. Surely that’s something to be proud of.”

“I can be proud, sure,” you replied. “But if I want to continue fixing the world, then I need my stealth. I need to not endanger an innocent.”

Zanaro sighed. “I guess I’ll let the Assassin explain what’s been going on.”

You blinked. “He’s here?”

Zanaro nodded. “Yeah, I took the liberty of informing him he could come down if he wanted.”

“Oh, good.”

Zanaro grinned for a minute, before getting up and exiting the room. Within a short few minutes, the Assassin appeared. He wore a simple short tunic and clean pants. He still had no less than five knives on his person, and you could see two pistols in his belt. His boots were laced up and he looked intimidating. But less mysterious than usual.

“Well, you look significantly less dead than I thought you’d look,” the Assassin commented.

“And you still look like an asshole,” you replied. “Status report?”

“It’s not looking good for you, I can tell you that much,” the Assassin's tone had grown more serious. “The Sergeant himself was dispatched. He’s got teams of trolls looking for you. Tamed packbeasts--Howlers--searching for your scent. You couldn’t set foot in a town without someone turning you in. The price is worse than death. Not even your old contacts would be able to help you.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I don’t particularly care for the bounty on your head. You said I could stay down here, and we got some metalworkers now, so we’ll be able to make our own coin. I don’t need to exist in the old world, even if I was good at it.”

You nodded a little, sighing. “So any ideas?”

“In short, you’re out of a job. Permanently.”

“Shit.”

“Well said.”

You attempted to concocted something, anything. Even the most basic and amateur of plans would have suited you well. But you were no fool.

“A thief knows when she’s beaten,” the Assassin supplied, watching you with a bit of sympathy in his eyes.

You wanted to deny it was true, but once again, he was right. You sighed.

“I want to see the Surface once more before I permanently retire down here,”

The Assassin raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t recommend it. The chances of you getting killed are rather high.”

“I’m used to having the odds against me,” you pointed out.

“Not this high,”

“Oh excuse me,” your voice was suddenly cold and sarcastic. “I forgot, you’re a mutant who’s lived their entire life in mortal peril. You were a slave once and watched your lusus torn to shreds. You were sexually abused by your master-”

“You and I share the run of bad luck in that department,” the Assassin interrupted. “So you can knock it off.”

You bit your lip. “Sorry,” you muttered.

The Assassin sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Untahmed,” he said after a while. “I’ll see about getting you up to the Surface one more time.”

You looked over to him. “I think it’s a waste of time, and won’t yield enough coin, if you get what I’m saying,” the Assassin continued. “But I might as well help you. You are the queen and you earned that fair and square. I have to half admire you for that, at least.”

You smiled a little. “What does the Wildcard think of all this?”

“Oh, I predict he’ll want to be with you,” the Assassin promised. “But I want him with you. He’s a good dude to keep around. But for now, focus on healing up. You’ve got work to do after.”

The Assassin left quietly, and you felt your eyes grow heavy. You were quite tired, you found. Something you hadn’t quite become accustomed to since you were a young four sweep old, malnourished and bleeding. But you felt a sense of calm come over you. Your friends were safe. And though the Alphabet was dead, at least she wouldn’t be punished by the Empresses.

You could now consider completing your final task, and then, you’d be forever done.

 

... _maybe_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gah, i wasn't even sure if i was going to get this up in time, but here it is. i feel slightly bad about putting this up today though. The owner and creator of the Alphabet is currently celebrating her birthday today! so a very happy birthday to her. I think i might lay down, im tired. hope you all enjoyed! ten more chapters to go.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, it's me again! Just letting you all know that there's no definite schedule. This thing is gonna be whenever I can work on it, which will probably be very frequent in the beginning, but I might become disinterested and stop working on it. I'd like to let you all know that receiving kudos and positive feedback, as well as constructive criticism, is definitely more likely to make me want to do this more, so if you'd like to see more, show me your support! I want to be certain people are actually reading this and I'm not just talking to a wall, y'know?
> 
> I will hopefully use these notes as a way to explain headcannons found in the story as well.


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